


the right way round

by MistressEast



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Stalking, Torture, Whump, akira is super whipped, and i couldnt find details on how goro joined the police so i made them up, beta read by moi, blink and miss it ref to makoto/ann and im srs about that, cant believe i forgot those tags ffs, flower language is not compliant with hanakotoba, goro is a high int/low wis build and ill die on that hill, goro is easily flustered, i accidentally wrote graphic torture whoops, i dont know how the police or hospitals work and i dont care, its barely even accurate but i like it so, not P5R compliant, oh I forgot, spoilers for November, there is tenderness ahead so be wary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 20:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20982254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressEast/pseuds/MistressEast
Summary: When an unexpected outside threat suddenly appears and destabilizes Goro's plans, he's convinced the best course of action is keeping quiet. He's managed everything so far, why should this be any different? Unfortunately, he's fallen in with some of the nosiest teens in Tokyo, and when Akira discovers something is wrong, Goro's problems only double. Juggling school, work, revenge, betrayal, and a stalker is hard enough without trying to keep from falling in love with a boy who's destined to die in less than a month.But someone is out for blood, and they won't be ignored.





	the right way round

**Author's Note:**

> *wakes up* oh shit i have to write about akechi being in danger *sprints into traffic*
> 
> this was originally going to be way shorter but here we are. bless these characters, i've never written this much or this quickly in my entire life.
> 
> title inspired by All We Do by Oh Wonder. i might link my playlist if i get my shit together bc tbh it's fire.

There are flowers on his desk.

A tasteful bouquet of clean, pale blossoms interspersed with small clusters of darker blooms, the whole thing wrapped in plastic stamped with the brand of a local florist’s shop. A nondescript envelope is tucked into the center. Goro regards it warily, briefcase in hand.

“How pretty!” the woman who works at the desk nearest him, a file clerk, chirps as she passes behind him. “Did someone send you flowers, Akechi-kun?”

“It looks that way,” he responds pleasantly. “You didn’t happen to see who delivered these, did you, Sasaki-san?”

She peers at the flowers curiously. “No, but I only got here an hour ago. Maybe one of the custodial staff dropped it off. Some of those florist places run early morning deliveries.”

That’s true. Sasaki moves off to her own desk and Goro continues to watch the bouquet, sitting innocently on his desk. He can’t recall any reason the flowers may have been warranted, no holidays coming up, no specific favors he did recently that might elicit gratitude. Besides the obvious. But Shido had never never been grateful for his _favors_.

Probably just a fan, then. It happened from time to time, gifts delivered to the station practically oozing with adolescent infatuation, but he was out in public enough that most people just handed him things directly. While the gesture of flowers was sweet and spoke to his influence with the people, despite recent blows to his reputation, them being delivered to his work meant he’d have to take them all the way home before throwing them out.

Repressing a sigh, Goro sets his briefcase on the desk and reaches for the envelope. Turning it over reveals only his own name written in small, neat letters on the back but no clue as to the sender. The envelope is sealed as well, so Goro removes his gloves to dig a fingernail under the edge and tear the flap open. Inside is a simple, unfolded piece of white cardstock, unadorned and unaddressed. Goro scans it, eyebrows pinching together.

_I look forward to meeting you again soon._

It’s in the same hand as the name on the envelope but there are no clues as to who sent it. Again, Goro wracks his brain for any recent connections he may have made. Perhaps someone he spoke to at the tv station? But nothing jumps to mind.

Frowning, he sets the card on the desk and reaches for the bouquet. It’s unexpectedly weighty, the stems forming a thick bundle in his hand and the plastic crinkling as he holds it up for inspection. He recognizes the name of the flower shop, a small place in the underground mall, but that doesn’t tell him anything, and neither do the flowers themselves. He’s pushing the stems apart, hoping for another note or any sort of clue as to whose attention he’s attracted when something sharp slices down his thumb.

Startled, he drops the bouquet and it bounces back onto the desk with a plasticky thud. He looks at his right hand in time to see the thin gash now running from the second knuckle of his thumb down to the meat of his palm begin to bead with blood. He stares as the blood flow quickly thickens into small rivulets dripping over his hand and down his wrist. His brain kicks back in gear before it can stain the cuff of his shirt and he angles his hand down, allowing the blood to drip onto the floor instead, and pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket, pressing it to the cut.

“What was–oh dear!” Goro looks up to see Sasaki stand quickly, eyes on the blood. “What happened?” she asks, hurrying over.

Goro doesn’t answer, instead reaching for the discarded bouquet, grabbing it carefully by the wrapped stems, and shaking it firmly over the desk. They both watch as four gleaming razor blades bounce free of the flowers.

“Razors?” Sasaki gasps, grabbing for Goro’s hand, which has stained the handkerchief completely in just those few seconds. “But, why–?”

Goro glares at the bouquet, ignoring his coworker’s fretting. This is the last thing he needs right now.

* * *

Goro declines the chief's offer to leave early. Despite his best efforts, word quickly spread through the office that someone had sent him a bouquet with razor blades in it, and any police officer worth anything would recognize that as a bad sign. But Goro has work to do and besides, it’s not like this hasn’t happened before.

Being a public figure means putting up with a lot of misplaced adoration as well as a lot of misplaced...other feelings. Weirdos who want to feel powerful. Perverts who get off on upsetting or scaring people. Goro certainly isn’t immune to the less savory aspects of being a celebrity and has had to contend with his fair share of distasteful attention. He’s only had to take care of a few people on those grounds, however. Most people get bored when he doesn’t react.

So he refuses his boss’s well-meant offer, allows Sasaki to bandage his hand, discreetly redoes the bandages in the bathroom, and gets on with his work. Now at least he has an excuse to dump the flowers, but he decides to wait and pay the florist a visit after his shift. Perhaps whoever’s working there will remember who ordered it.

He also rejects the chief’s offer of a police escort, claiming he’s pretty sure he knows what’s going on and it’s just a mean-spirited prank. There’s not much the chief can do when the person in question doesn’t want to cooperate, so he gives up on that and Goro is allowed to leave peacefully when he finishes his work.

He wouldn’t say he’s _concerned_ about the situation, but if anything is giving him pause it’s the note.

_I look forward to meeting you again soon._

_Again_. So this person is acquainted with Goro, or thinks they are. That doesn’t narrow it down any more, but something about the note sticks with him.

The whole thing is truly a bother, he laments, boarding the train that will get him to the underground mall. He barely has the time to keep up his “ordinary” life at the moment, between running around for Shido, running Sae around herself, and running Akira and his nosy friends in circles regarding his true intentions. The last one was proving by far the most difficult. They were far more intuitive and far more...interested in him than he’d anticipated.

His hand burns as he clenches it purposefully in his lap. The pain steadies him.

The mall isn’t bustling this late, but it’s not empty and Goro keeps his head down on his way to the flower shop. It’s just a hole in the wall, and Goro had once wondered how well a flower shop could do away from the sun, but the owner is well-known for her arrangements, so it hardly matters. Goro steps into the shop with confidence that abruptly fails him when he’s met with a familiar curly black mop and thick-rimmed glasses standing behind counter.

Akira blinks owlishly before breaking into a wide grin. On anyone else, such an expression would barely be considered a “pleased smile” but Goro has spent enough time around him to know that Akira is practically beaming. He can’t possibly imagine why.

“Akechi-san,” he smiles, leaning his elbows on the counter. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Goro steels himself against the look in Akira’s eyes, sharp and instantly focused on him with enough intensity to make his skin prickle. It’s nothing new. Akira always looks at him like that. He should be used to it by now.

“Kurusu-kun,” he greets, offering a polite smile of his own. “I wasn’t...aware you worked here. I thought you were employed at Leblanc.”

Akira waves a hand. “I do a lot of things,” he says dismissively before pinning Goro with his stare again. “And didn’t I tell you to call me Akira? We are teammates now, aren’t we?”

_Aren’t we?_ A good question. Goro swallows. “Right. Apologies. You simply caught me off guard.”

Akira straightens up, gesturing to his apron. “Too distracted by how hot I look in this?”

Goro spares him an unimpressed look. “It looks exactly like your Leblanc uniform.”

“So you’re saying I always look hot.”

“I’m saying you look like a bus boy.”

Too late, he realizes that was a little too rude to suit his usual personality, but Akira just laughs, looking inordinately thrilled. “Alright, you don’t have to admit it if you don’t want to.”

Goro rolls his eyes, ignoring the warmth in his cheeks. “I did actually come here on business.”

“I see.” Akira’s attention finally turns to the bouquet, which had been double-checked and declared razor-free, in Goro’s hand. “What’s up?”

Goro sets the flowers on the counter. “I received these this morning and the wrapping is from this store. I just wanted to see if there was a record of who purchased them.”

Akira’s expression does something strange as he picks up the bouquet and starts paging through a binder on the counter. “Wouldn’t finding out who your secret admirer is ruin the fun?”

Goro snorts. “Trust me, that’s not what this is about.”

“Oh?”

Akira clearly wants more information but Goro just clenches his gloved fist at his side and resolutely doesn’t provide any. It’s bad enough this is happening now, the last thing he needs is Akira and his compatriots nosing around out of misplaced and imagined _concern_.

After a second of scanning the binder, Akira straightens up. “Well,” he says, “usually I wouldn’t just give client information out to anyone who asks, but for you, I’ll make an exception–” he grimaces, “–is what I’d like to say. Unfortunately, it looks like this was a phone order and no name was given. Hana-san took the order last night and the courier took it for delivery this morning.”

Goro presses his lips together. “I see. And no name was given for the payment information?”

Akira shakes his head. “You don’t need a name for manual entry and it looks like Hana-san didn’t ask for one.” He glances at Goro thoughtfully. “Is this police business or personal?”

“Personal.” Akechi sighs. “Thank you, Akira-kun. I’m sure I’ll find out one way or another.”

Akira regards him critically, eyes flicking between Goro and the bouquet. “They’re nice. Japanese anemone and sea lavender. You sure this isn’t from an admirer?”

“Fairly sure, yes.”

“Why is that?”

Goro narrows his eyes at Akira and his feigned nonchalance. Why does he care so much? “Did you send them?”

Akira blinks. Then he drops the bouquet less than carefully and crosses his arms. “No way. I’d send something much better.”

“Is that so.”

“Sure.” Akira glances shiftily around the store. “Hana-san has been teaching me about flower meanings. I’m sure I could whip up something way better than this.”

Beating a razor blade to the hand is a low bar, but Goro isn’t about to tell Akira that. So instead he smirks. “Care to elaborate?”

Akira catches his eye and Goro instantly regrets his words when he spies the familiar teasing glint in Akira’s gaze. It would be an exaggeration to claim that look haunted him, mostly because that would imply this specific look held particular prominence. The truth of the matter is that all of Akira’s looks haunt him in one way or another.

Akira opens his mouth but before he can say anything, the door on the back wall opens and a woman pushes her way out, untying her apron. “I’m about to lock up, Kurusu-kun. You can head out–oh!” She stops at the sight of Goro standing in the shop. “I didn’t realize we had a customer.”

“Apologies, ma’am, I was just leaving,” Goro says smoothly, offering a polite bow to the both of them. “I merely came to ask a question about some flowers I received. I hope you have a good night.”

He locks eyes with Akira as he gathers the bouquet and turns to go, but the persistence of that playful gleam forces him to look away, hurrying out of the shop and trying to convince himself the warmth in his cheeks is simply the lingering summer air.

* * *

Later that night, after the bouquet is disposed of and his schoolwork is done and his reports to Shido are sent, Goro falls into bed with an exhausted sigh, thinking about how he has to do it all again tomorrow, plus a meeting with the phantom thieves in Akira’s strange attic room. Meeting is too strict a term, however, as their gatherings seem to quickly devolve into, as Ryuji so eloquently puts it, “hang sessions.” Ann insists it’s bonding time. Akira just smiles enigmatically.

They should be tedious, loathsome events, a necessity of the job, of his _plan_, and they are. Mostly. The aftermath is, certainly. Shido always wants every detail and Goro has to tread a thin, precarious line between feeding him enough information to keep him happy and holding his own hand close to his chest. Not to mention every time such gatherings start to wind down, Akira starts making ridiculous noises about “hanging out longer” and “staying the night.” Goro doesn’t indulge him and ignores the curious tug in his chest at Akira’s disappointed expression. They’re all liars, just like him.

Goro pushes his face into his pillow, trying to recall if he ate dinner. He thinks he did. He pulls his phone out to check his bank history and it vibrates in his hand, lighting up his dark bedroom with a text from–Akira.

Gritting his teeth, Goro opens the chat.

**Akira: Per our earlier conversation:**

What follows are several links sent in succession.

Goro quirks an eyebrow and rolls over on his side. He taps on the first url and his phone’s browser opens to what looks like an online encyclopedia of plants. The page he’s looking at is apparently about dahlias. The picture accompanying the text shows a bushy, dark purple bloom. The edges of the petals are paler, almost white. The text talks a bit about the history and genealogy of the plant, but Goro’s attention is drawn by the small paragraph at the end:

_In the language of flowers, dahlias have many meanings, including gratitude and instability, but they’re used most often to represent dignity and elegance._

Oh, that flower language nonsense. Of course Goro knows people ascribe meanings to plants, but it’s never been relevant to him. He wonders if Akira is choosing flowers based on meaning or aesthetic preference. _Dignity and elegance_. Surely Akira just likes the way dahlias look.

The second link brings him to the page on heather, white heather specifically. The text cheerfully informs him the stalks of small white blooms in the photo are mostly used as filler flowers when included in bouquets and they symbolize good luck and protection. Goro snorts at that. While he could definitely use both of those, he doubts Akira would actually wish them on him.

The third link opens the article on blue violets, which at least look familiar to Goro. He considers the color choices Akira has made, dark purple, white, and blue, trying to visualize them together. If nothing else, he appreciates the darker color palate more than the stark black and white contrast of his unwanted present. He’s mulling over what critique he could give Akira when his gaze falls on the little paragraph explaining the symbolism of blue violets.

_–faith, affection, and intuitive love, which is a fancy way to say love at first sight. So if you ever find yourself captivated by a stranger from across the room, consider sending them some blue violets to let them know how you feel._

Blood rushes to his cheeks so fast it’s honestly fortunate that he’s already lying down or he might have fallen over. He sticks his arm over the edge of the bed and drops his phone onto the carpet below mechanically. The action makes his hand throb but he barely feels it, pressing his face into his pillow in the hopes that he can smother himself into unconsciousness to escape the involuntary thrumming of his heart.

It’s _stupid_. Akira doesn’t mean anything by it. Goro knows better than anyone about the boy’s hidden competitive streak; he must have taken Goro’s comments as a challenge and sent the flowers to make good on his declaration. He probably didn’t even look at the meanings. Who would? It’s not like flower language is absolute.

But what if he did look at the meanings? Goro also knows how deliberate Akira is, every move measured, every word calculated, every decision intentional. He comes across easy-going and almost lackadaisical, but Goro can tell how much of that is an act. It’s easy to recognize since he sees a variant of it on himself every morning in the mirror.

The thought only makes his heart beat harder and he pushes it from his mind. None of this matters. Soon enough, Akira will be dead, and that’s all there is to it.

With that in mind, Goro reclaims his phone and finds more messages from Akira.

**Akira: What do you think? We have all these flowers ** **at the shop. I can put them together and show you sometime.**

**Akira: If you need a visual.**

**Akira: I’d like to hear your thoughts.**

Goro takes a deep breath.

**Thinking of a career in flower arranging?**

**Akira: Keeping my options open.**

**And how many options have presented ** **themselves so far?**

**Akira: I can tell you’re being sarcastic but**

**Akira: I’ll have you know**

**Akira: I have contacts all over the place**

**Oh?**

**Akira: I could have any job I want**

**Akira: I could be a journalist or a politician. ** **Or sell replica weapons. Maybe even be a famous shogi ** **player someday.**

**How industrious of you. ** **Don’t forget your friends when you’re ** **a famous shogi-playing politician.**

**Akira: I could never forget you.**

Goro doesn’t throw his phone back on the floor but it’s a near thing.

**Akira: Anyway you didn’t answer my question**

Right, the flowers. Goro curses Akira under his breath. That was too cruel not to be planned.

**Of course, I’m not an expert on flowers so ** **I don’t know how much weight my opinion has.**

**Akira: It’s not a competition I just want to ** **know if you like them.**

Deep breaths.

**In that case, I do find the colors more pleasing ** **than the composition of the other bouquet.**

**And the flowers themselves are more visually ** **interesting.**

**Akira: Thank you, professor.**

**I’m going to block your number.**

**Akira: No!!!**

Even over text, Akira manages to sound scandalized. Goro bites back a laugh.

**Akira: What did you do with the other flowers?**

**I disposed of them. I don’t have the patience to keep ** **them and I’d inevitably forget them and allow them to ** **wither unattractively in my apartment.**

**Akira: Oh so you don’t like flowers at all.**

**I wouldn’t say that. I like dogs but I don’t have** **the resources to care for one right now. It’s like that.**

**Akira: Very pragmatic.**

**You’re flattering me.**

**Akira: Never.**

The smile on his face stretches too wide to be ignored, and the reality of what he’s doing slams into him painfully: lying in bed in the middle of the night, when he should be sleeping, curled around his phone, grinning like an idiot because of a _boy_. A _criminal_. He’s not a highschooler with a crush. He’s a detective, a celebrity. A murderer. And a liar. Specifically to the boy on the other end of the chat room. This is...this is all wrong.

**I really have to be getting to bed.**

**Akira: Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you up.**

**Akira: See you tomorrow.**

**Akira: Goodnight, Akechi.**

If Goro’s fingers shake as he types, it’s because his cut is bothering him.

**Goodnight, Akira.**

Sleep isn’t elusive, creeping up almost instantly, and instead of memories of white blossoms and razor blades and blood, Goro finds his head filled with dense purple petals and wild black hair and flower language.

* * *

He goes to work after school, as usual. He can’t stay long today, due to the meeting, and he technically doesn’t have to go at all. The chief has told him many times he can wait for the weekend to come into the office, but if Goro is going to ride this thing all the way to the top, he has to put in the effort.

When he walks in, he’s beckoned over to the front desk, where the secretary on duty is holding out an envelope. “This was left for you, Akechi-kun.”

He takes the envelope carefully. “Left by whom?”

She shrugs. “It was here when I started my shift. It has your name on it. Expecting any mail?”

“Perhaps,” he answers noncommittally. “Thank you, Nakamura-san.”

He slips into an empty meeting room to open the letter, keen to avoid another public spectacle, should there be any more bloodshed. Again, the envelope is simple, white, with only his name in neat letters on the back. He presses his fingers against the paper, searching for the hard plane of a razor, bending the letter just to be sure. When he’s satisfied he won’t be slashed again, he peels open the flap, holding the envelope away from himself on the off chance of some kind of chemical weapon. Nothing puffs or falls out. The only thing in the envelope is another piece of plain cardstock, which Goro removes and glares at.

_Did you like my gift? Please think of me when you feel the wound on your hand. I think of you when I feel mine. I would love nothing more than for us to match. Look forward to more presents._

_We’ll see each other soon._

No signature, again, but this time, there’s a clue. Three clues, actually.

The sender is someone he’s dealt with before, probably someone he helped arrest.

The sender is someone who received a wound as a result of the arrest.

The sender has some way of knowing he cut his hand.

Sure, anyone can hide a razor in a bouquet and hope it’ll do some damage, but they have no way of being sure. Goro didn’t leave the police station while bleeding and he didn’t personally tell anyone what had happened. He wore gloves all the way from the station to the flower shop to his apartment, so no one who was simply watching him could have spied to bandages. This means that the sender is either someone inside the police department or working with someone inside the police department.

He slips the letter into his pocket, casting his mind back through his past arrests. He’s been doing this for long enough that he can’t remember all of them, but he would think that something violent might stick out. A couple instances come to mind, but nothing that screams _potential stalker_. He’ll look into it later, he decides, heading to his desk.

“Akechi-kun!” Sasaki greets him, rolling backwards as he approaches. “How’s your hand?”

Goro turns on his charming smile. “Much better. Thank you, Sasaki-san.”

“Has anything else happened?” she asks.

“No,” he lies, setting his briefcase on his desk. “It was likely nothing more than a cruel prank. I wouldn’t worry any more about it.”

She seems mollified at that and Goro sighs as she turns back to her work. People like him, and that’s the goal, but sometimes it’s more trouble than it’s worth.

* * *

They’re on a pretty tight time limit. Okamura is dead (it was necessary, he told himself afterward, the plan, remember the plan) and the Phantom Thieves are backed into a corner. That’s the only way they’d ever accept Goro as a member. Now Sae is after them and everything is quickly becoming very urgent.

That doesn’t stop the Phantom Thieves, the scourge of Goro’s personal and professional lives, the self-proclaimed champions of justice, from getting bored halfway through their strategy meeting and deciding to play card games on the floor of the attic.

Only Makoto seems leery of the wasted time. As much as Goro has intentionally provoked her in the past (partially as part of his efforts to upset Sae), he recognizes that she has a good head and he’s personally seen her in action in the metaverse. So he silently agrees when she makes a pointed comment about how the group is too easily distracted.

“Come on,” Ryuji entreats. “We’ve got it figured out, right, Akira?”

Akira, perched beside Goro on the bed, nods lazily.

Makoto doesn’t seem convinced.

“Just a few games, Makoto,” Ann laughs, dealing a couple of cards to Haru, who picks them up with single-minded curiosity. “We can even talk shop if you really want to.”

Makoto, Goro has realized, is singularly weak to Ann’s requests. She displays unexpected softness with all of the group members, but Ann has a special way with her. Not that either of them are aware of it. Not that Goro is at all interested in their internal affairs outside of what directly benefits him.

When it comes out that Yusuke doesn’t know the rules of poker, the group on the floor devolves into bad explanations and arguments about who _actually _knows the rules and it’s in this hubbub that Futaba finally looks up from her laptop.

Goro only notices because his eyes have a habit of straying to her when they’re together in the same room for too long. She’s like a bruise that he can’t stop prodding. As uncomfortable as it is, however, it’s still easier than interacting with Haru. If Futaba is a bruise, Haru is an open, bleeding wound, even just sitting quietly on the floor, pale but smiling as she watches the others squabble. As it is, they both treat him with careful camaraderie. They don’t fully trust him, but it’s the limited trust of new acquaintances, one of whom is blackmailing the other, not the suspicion of people who secretly hate each other. The others treat him similarly, with the exception of Akira, who seems to want to dive headfirst into being best buddies. Although, that’s partially Goro’s fault.

Futaba awkwardly unfolds herself from the couch and pads around the bodies on the floor until she can lean over and whisper in Akira’s ear. Goro can’t hear what she’s saying, the noise level in the room is too high, and Akira remains impassive. He nods at her as she leans back before rising and stretching his arms over his head languidly.

Morgana instantly claims his empty spot, curling up and looking far too pleased for someone who insists he’s not actually a cat.

“Be right back,” Akira mutters as he makes his way across the attic. He descends the stairs with Futaba unsubtly on his heels.

Goro watches them go, wondering what schemes they might be hatching.

Regardless, if they’re not going to discuss anything of importance, Goro figures it’s best he leave. He still has work to finish, his report to Shido to give, not to mention he has to be up early to go cycling, so if he wants to get more than a couple hours of sleep tonight–

“Akechi-kun, get down here and show Ryuji how poker _actually_ works,” Ann demands, glaring at Ryuji across the circle.

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Ryuji protests. “Dude’s a detective! That’s, like, cheating!”

“If you’re as amazing as you say, it shouldn’t matter, should it?” Ann counters.

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m not very good at the game,” Goro cuts in, excuses ready on his tongue, but that just makes Ryuji grin mischievously.

“Oh, in that case, deal him in, Ann. I’d like to see the great detective prince lose at something.”

Goro laughs sardonically. “How very blunt, Sakamoto-san.”

“Gotta take my wins where I can get ‘em, man,” Ryuji shrugs.

The banter is almost playful and Goro realizes with a jolt that he’s not acting as much as he would normally be. His gut twists nervously and he doesn’t want to tempt fate, so he prepares another excuse, but Makoto’s questioning look stops him.

She’s staring steadily at him, head slightly cocked, like she’s thinking about something very intently. But it’s not a mocking expression. It’s just...thoughtful.

“Alright,” Ryuji continues, patting the space on the floor beside him. “Come sit with us peasants and I’ll teach you how the pros play poker.”

“I wasn’t aware you had a particular aptitude for this game, Ryuji,” Yusuke remarks seriously.

“Bro, shut it.”

Having missed his window to politely excuse himself, Goro secretly grinds his teeth together and obediently lowers himself to sit with the others. Ann deals him in and by the time Akira and Futaba return, carrying a tray of mugs, Ryuji is complaining that Goro lied about being good at poker.

“I assure you, it’s just a bit of luck, Sakamoto-san!” Goro tries to placate him, amused despite himself. Of course he’s good at poker. He makes lying look like an art.

“He’s right,” Akira chimes in, distributing coffee like a diligent waiter. “He’s really lucky.”

Goro narrows his eyes, watching Akira move around the room. What is that supposed to mean?

When Akira stops beside him, offering a steaming mug, Goro reaches up to accept it, unable to refuse Leblanc’s coffee, no matter the circumstances. Their fingers brush as Akira lets go and the look Akira gives him is too intense to be simple eye contact. Goro blinks, but Akira turns away, discarding the tray and shooing Morgana out of his spot so he can settle back on the bed. Akira and Goro are still essentially sitting next to each other, but on different levels. When Goro returns to his cards, he can still see the long, dark line of Akira’s leg in his periphery.

He loses the next round, but everyone thinks it was intentional, so it’s okay.

The group stops pretending to play poker at some point and falls into a deep discussion on the philosophy of gambling, complete with throwing the cards at each other to emphasize their points. Goro, feeling the day finally catching up with him, leans back against Akira’s rickety bed and listens idly as Yusuke calls Ryuji a hedonistic idealist and Ryuji demands _who exactly wanted to see Ann naked again? _And Haru gasps and Makoto shouts _wait, what?_ And like this, it’s almost like it’s real. He can hear Akira chuckling occasionally above him, feel the slight shift of the mattress as he moves, the warmth radiating off of him. It’s almost like it’s real. If he closes his eyes, it even kind of feels real.

Someone scoffs something but he’s not listening anymore. He feels his mug lifted out of his hands and the motion irritates the cut on his hand, but even that isn’t enough to rouse him as he realizes too late that he’s falling–

The gentle hand on his head wakes him and he startles upright, moving away from whatever his cheek was leaning on. His neck twinges uncomfortably and he puts a hand to it, looking around dazedly and trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me,” Akira says placidly. He’s on the bed in the same place that he’s been all night, one hand raised, and, as he said, alone. Goro can’t even see Morgana lounging anywhere. The room is dim and quiet, lit only by the lamp on the desk, the others obviously gone for the night. With a rush of embarrassment, Goro wonders how long he’s been asleep.

“I’m so sorry about that–” he apologizes hastily, pushing himself to his feet. “I must be more tired than I thought. It’s not too late, is it? I’ll just catch a night train and–”

Akira’s hand on his wrist stops him as tries to turn away. “It’s alright. You seemed really exhausted. And it’s not that late.”

“I see.” Goro looks pointedly at the hand on his wrist but it doesn’t move. “Can I help you with something, Akira?”

Akira tugs lightly on his arm. “Come sit down.”

He shouldn’t, Goro knows. He needs to get home, needs to report to Shido, needs to separate himself from the boy he’s planning to murder. But instead he lets Akira lead him back to the bed and sits beside him, the mattress creaking with their combined weight. The room is perfectly bright enough to see by, but the single lamp throws deep shadows across Akira’s face, his eyes glittering slate behind his glasses.

“Is this all you wanted?” Goro asks to shake the weird tension that’s settled over him.

“No. I have a confession to make.” Akira’s still holding his wrist and he tightens his grip a little. It’s Goro’s right hand. If Akira moves a little lower– his wound twinges at the thought.

“That sounds serious.”

Akira’s expression_ is_ serious, but there’s an undercurrent of anxiety that’s only evident in the small furrow between his eyebrows, the tight line of his lips. “After you came to the flower shop, I had Futaba run the credit card information from your bouquet order.”

Goro blinks. “That’s illegal.”

The corner of Akira’s mouth quirks up. “I do a lot of illegal things.”

“Why did you do this illegal thing?”

“It was bothering me.”

“It’s my business.” Goro pulls his wrist out of Akira’s hand and Akira lets him. “I don’t need you checking up on me.” _I really don’t need you checking up on me._

Akira doesn’t even have the grace to look guilty because he’s a prick who thinks he knows best, as usual. “Something just felt weird. You said it wasn’t a fan, but you obviously didn’t know who sent them, so I just thought–”

“I appreciate your concern,” Goro interrupts through gritted teeth. “However, my private life is–”

“You can be upset with me, but I wouldn’t be bringing it up to you if Futaba didn’t find anything.”

Goro snaps his mouth shut, watching Akira expectantly. “Well?”

A muscle jumps in Akira’s jaw. “The card was stolen, or at least the numbers. The previous purchases were all in a province way north of here, until the day before yesterday, when the card was used to make two orders, one online and one over the phone. The bouquet–” Akira breaks off, his expression hardening, “–and a pack of razor blades.”

Goro stares back unflinchingly. “How odd.”

“That’s what I thought too. Then Futaba showed me this–” Akira pulls his phone out of his pocket and thumbs through it, the blueish light glaring off his glasses. When he holds the phone up to show Goro the screen, the light stings his eyes momentarily. It looks like an instagram post with a picture of a man at a desk, looking theatrically exasperated. The person looks vaguely familiar. Goro scans the caption and bristles instantly in irritation.

_Came in to work and heard someone sent a coworker a bouquet with razor blades in it! What is wrong with people? The police are just doing their job!_

And then, bizarrely, some hashtags associated with recent American controversies involving law enforcement, as if that has anything to do with the situation. Now Goro recognizes the man in the photo: a rookie detective who was just transferred from another precinct and who was apparently never briefed on workplace discretion. At least he hadn’t tagged Goro’s instagram.

“How frightening,” he says tightly, sitting back. He really should have been more insistent on keeping the matter private.

Akira puts his phone on the bed. “Akechi.”

“What?” Goro snaps. He can’t deal with this right now, can’t deal with Akira’s steady gaze or his soft voice or his false _concern_.

“Is something going on?” Akira asks, seemingly unperturbed by Goro’s tone.

Goro crosses his ankles restlessly, wishing he could go back in time and stop himself from visiting that stupid flower shop. “It’s nothing.”

“Really? Because it sounds like someone sent you a bouquet with razor blades in it. That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“It’s a personal matter. You don’t need to concern yourself over it.”

“If someone is threatening you–”

“I can take care of myself!” Goro cuts in angrily. He instantly regrets it, resisting the urge to clap a hand over his mouth. His carefully constructed mask is slipping, stripping his control with each revealed inch.

“I’m not questioning your capability,” Akira responds, his tone uncharacteristically heated. Akira rarely gets angry, rarely shows any strong emotions, actually. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” Goro hisses, unable to regain his composure. It’s too late, this is too sudden, he’s too tired. Whatever, he’ll apologize in the morning and go back to normal, but for now he can’t stand Akira’s burning gaze. He shoves himself to his feet but before he can storm out, Akira grabs him again, fingers wrapping around his hand, pressing into the swollen line of the gash on his palm. The stinging pain shoots all the way up his arm and Goro can’t control the way he flinches in surprise. He wrenches his hand away and stumbles back a few steps, tucking his hand quickly behind himself.

Akira rises, staring at him with wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Goro says quickly.

Akira narrows his eyes and Goro can almost see the math floating around his head. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s fine.” Goro just wants to _leave_, but when Akira reaches out slowly, Goro doesn’t move or stop him. He just stands there as Akira gingerly pulls his arm out from behind his back. As he gingerly steps closer to hold Goro’s hand between them. As he gingerly removes Goro’s glove, one finger at a time. The gentleness of his movements may as well be a slap, each cautious touch stinging like a new bruise.

The glove gone, Akira can clearly see the wrapping on his hand. The cut is in such an awkward place that Goro had been forced to wrap his whole hand to keep pressure on the wound. The result is a little more alarming than the situation calls for.

“It’s just a cut,” he finds himself saying. “I was careless.”

“With a razor blade.”

Goro can’t tear his eyes away from his own hand, cupped between both of Akira’s. “A cruel prank. It happens sometimes.”

“This has happened before?” Akira sounds so horrified that Goro lets out a surprised laugh.

“The price of being a celebrity, I’m afraid.”

“Akechi, I’m serious.”

Akira’s tone finally draws Goro’s eyes back up to his face. “You’re always serious, aren’t you?” he sighs.

“Has anything else happened?”

Reflexively, Goro opens his mouth to deny it, to brush the whole thing off, but the next words that come out are: “Just a letter. Delivered to the station.” What? Why did he say that?

Akira’s eyebrows jump up. “What kind of letter?”

“A vaguely threatening letter. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And they were sent by the same person?”

“The handwriting looked the same.”

“Can I see it?”

Now _that_ he cannot allow. “I disposed of it already. Truly, it’s nothing to worry about.”

Another unreadable expression. “I’m glad you don’t seem to be upset over this, but you’ll forgive me for being concerned.”

“Why?” Goro demanded. “I’ve said it doesn’t matter, so why won’t you just let it go?”

“Because I care about you!” Again, Akira sounds angrier than Goro has ever heard him. “Don’t you know what that means?”

What it _means_ is that Goro’s infiltration has been a complete success, assuming that Akira’s words haven’t been a lie so far. “You don’t get to be angry about this,” Goro hisses, finally tearing his hand away from Akira’s grasp. “You’re the one who went prying into _my_ personal business!”

Akira blinks at the loss of contact, brows furrowed. “That–I–I didn’t–”

“I’m handling it,” Goro insists, stepping away and collecting his briefcase and jacket with measured motions. “We all have more important things to worry about, myself included, so don’t dwell on the matter.”

Akira watches him in silence, silver eyes glowing gold in the low light. When Goro glances back at him before he descends the stairs, Akira’s figure looks oddly bereft. Lonesome.

“You’ll tell me, right?” he says, quietly enough that Goro almost doesn’t hear it, but he does hear it, and he pauses.

“Tell you?”

“If something happens?” Akira stares steadily across the distance separating them. “If you need help?”

All the breath leaves Goro in a rush and he presses his lips together to keep from making a sound. “I won’t need help,” he responds evenly. Then he descends the stairs and exits the cafe with calm steps.

He only starts running when he’s well out of sight of Leblanc.

He doesn’t realize he left his glove behind until he takes the other one off for bed.

* * *

A few days pass uneventfully. He’s not avoiding Akira, he simply hasn’t had occasion to meet with the phantom thieves. He’s busy, as always, with his own work, and things are progressing smoothly enough that even if he _is_ avoiding Akira, it’s fine.

He has to resist the urge to punish the moron who posted about the flowers on instagram, however. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter.

No more letters arrive for him and he’s glad not to receive any presents. If he’s lucky, whoever this is will lose interest before doing anything drastic. They usually do. Goro has only had to handle one particularly zealous idiot in Mementos; the others all grew bored after a while.

As a precaution, he looks through his old cases and compiles a list of possible suspects, individuals who were injured when he arrested them. There aren’t many. He’s good at his job and due to his age he doesn’t handle many violent cases anyway, but things happen. Scanning the list, however, none of them feel very promising.

He sets the folder aside on his couch and pinches the bridge of his nose. This is not what he should be focusing on. Pulling out his phone, he opens the browser to google one of the names, forgetting momentarily whether they were still in prison. The last page he looked at greets him innocently, loading onto the screen before he can tap the search bar.

Blue violets.

Memories of his late night conversation with Akira wash over him with a vengeance and he nearly flings the phone away from himself in disgust but it suddenly vibrates in his hand, a notification dropping from the top of the screen.

**Akira: You up for a trip to Mementos tomorrow?**

What’s that English saying? Speak of the devil and he shall appear? Like a wily trickster demon, Akira knows when Goro is thinking of him. Frowning, Goro opens the messenger app and taps out a response.

**I may be working with you for now, but you ** **know I don’t approve of your vigilante activities.**

**Akira: We got a few requests.**

**Even now?**

**Akira: Some people are desperate enough.**

Goro clicks his tongue, leaning back against the couch cushions. He certainly understands the feeling of desperation.

**Surely you have enough team ** **members for a short excursion.**

**Akira: I want you there.**

Goro’s heart stutters in his chest. How can Akira just _say_ stuff like that? Fingers tightening around his phone, Goro reasons that’s just how Akira talks. He’s the leader, after all, he’s used to the others just falling in line with his desires. Goro has seen it first hand, the easy deference of the other phantom thieves. The trust they show. Like Akira knows what he’s doing.

**Akira: I want to see you.**

God dammit.

**Akira: And I want to talk to you about what happened.**

What happened. Goro has been trying very hard not to think about what happened. Akira’s glowing eyes, narrowed with emotion, his hands so warm through Goro’s bandages, the pleading look that followed Goro down the stairs. Why can’t Akira let anything go?

**What time?**

Akira’s response is immediate, right after school. Goro agrees and wishes him a curt goodnight before giving in and throwing his phone across the room.

It’s time for bed, he decides.

He’s just finished up in the bathroom when his apartment phone rings. He answers it quickly, since the only person who uses it is whoever is at the front desk.

Sure enough, the desk attendant greets him apologetically.

“I apologize for the late hour, Akechi-san, but I forgot to tell you earlier: someone left something for you at the front desk.”

Goro’s spine stiffens. “What is it?”

“Just an envelope. The morning shift girl left it and said it was dropped off for you. I forgot to tell you when you got back. Again, my apologies.”

“It’s alright.” Goro tries to keep his breathing even. “I’ll be down in just a moment.”

He’s already in his pajamas, but he hardly cares, bypassing the elevator and racing down the stairs to get to the lobby. He composes himself before approaching the desk and thanks the tired-looking attendant when she passes over a plain white envelope. She doesn’t know anything else regarding the envelope’s origin, only that it was dropped off in the morning and the girl who accepted it was under the impression it had something to do with Goro’s work.

Back in his apartment, he sits at the breakfast bar and once again carefully checks the envelope for razors, bending it, feeling the paper. There don’t seem to be any hazards inside, but there’s obviously more inside than one piece of cardstock. The envelope is thicker and heavier than the previous one. Whatever’s in there, it can’t be more disturbing than what the presence of the envelope itself means.

They may not know the exact unit, but the sender knows where Goro’s apartment building is.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Goro breaks the seal and shakes the envelope over the counter, letting several pieces of paper slide out. On top is a now-familiar rectangle of white cardstock. Goro picks it up and scans it dispassionately.

_The presents I promised. Don’t worry, I’ll send more. We’ll be seeing each other soon._

That promise of meeting–it’s been in every note. It’s obviously not a simple sign-off, not a polite _talk to you soon_. With this escalation, it’s obvious those words hold more meaning. More threat.

As for the so-called presents–

Goro gathers the other papers and turns them over, quickly realizing that they’re photographs, printed on glossy photo paper, all with a similar subject.

Him.

There are five. One of him clearly leaving the police station, descending the steps and looking distractedly at his phone. One of him standing in a crowd at a crosswalk, both hands hooked into the handle of his briefcase. One of him ordering at a crepe stand, his polite smile in focus despite the obvious distance the photo was taken from. One of him opening the door of the courthouse, standing aside for Sae to enter. Her back is to the camera and he’s smiling at her in profile. Goro remembers this, remembers visiting the courthouse with Sae last week and holding the door for her as she walked past, mumbling.

The last photo makes him suck in a breath, knuckles going white as he grips the stiff paper. It’s him in the underground, summer uniform tidy and ready for the day, waiting for the train, and beside him, hands in his pockets with his signature slouch, stands Akira. Goro is the one speaking, hand raised as he gestures, unsmiling and clearly very intent on whatever he’s saying. Akira is watching him, eyes hidden by the glare of his glasses under the harsh subway lights, mouth curved in the smallest smile. Morgana’s tail is peeking out of his bag. He was probably annoyed by Akira’s inattention and decided to duck down and go to sleep. The vantage point is the closest out of the five images, but that’s not what suddenly has Goro’s stomach in knots.

His stalker has seen Akira. He’s seen Goro interacting with Akira. Thankfully, the photos all seem to be taken within Goro’s usual patterns: work, the courthouse, food stands around the police station. Perhaps the stalker hasn’t noticed his infrequent excursions to Leblanc? But if he truly is watching Goro, he’ll locate the coffee shop eventually. Maybe he already has.

Akira’s safety is…. Well, it’s paramount. For now. Akira Kurusu has a destiny and it’s not to be murdered by some pervert who has no idea what they’re getting into. Akira has to die at the right time and by Goro’s hand, anything else is–

It’s–

It can’t happen. Goro needs to start avoiding Akira until he can put an end to this ridiculous situation. For the sake of his plan.

Mind made up, Goro sweeps the photos and note into his briefcase and retrieves the folder from the couch. He flips it open on the breakfast bar, booting up his laptop. He needs to do some research.

* * *

Ultimately, he decides to keep his agreement with Akira and meet up with the others for a sojourn in Mementos, partially because he knows Akira won’t buy any excuse he makes up and partially because he needs to visit Mementos anyway.

His renewed efforts uncovered a few more names and narrowed down the list to five possible suspects, five people who were injured in the course of one of his investigations or arrests and were currently out of jail or might have the means to harass him while incarcerated. Four men and one woman.

Goro needs to check Mementos to see if any of them have shadows. Surely anyone driven to do what they’d done to Goro so far would have distorted desires, he reasons. He could check Mementos on his own, but he figures it’s safer to enter with the others and _accidentally_ get separated long enough to do what he needs to than to potentially get caught by one of the others while on a solo mission. He’s still pretending to be inexperienced, after all, and prying into the thieves’ plans regarding Mementos would be suspicious.

The group is rowdy as always when he meets them at Leblanc, too caught up in teasing each other to notice the uneasy way Goro avoids Akira or the pointed looks Akira keeps tossing him. Goro has to marvel at their ability to relax, even in such dire circumstances.

The requests are nothing special, but Mementos is dangerous these days, shifting and spiralling with no warning, shadows lurking around every corner, the very ground flickering under their feet. It’s unstable, reflecting the public’s anxiety, so even a simple venture into the upper levels can become dangerous, and that’s exactly what Goro is waiting for.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

After dispatching the second of three distortions, Goro feels the telltale rippling of the air that signals a shift in their surroundings. The ground shudders and the tile of the cognitive subway station begins to melt and sizzle around them.

Futaba curses. “The terrain is morphing, guys, we need to get somewhere stable pronto.”

“Stick together,” Akira orders, scooping Morgana into his arms as he starts running. The passage is too narrow for the cat’s car trick.

The others follow immediately, grabbing each other and racing after their leader. Makoto doesn’t reach for him, but she does fall into step with Goro, partnering up like Akira told them to. It’s a nice gesture, but it’s wasted.

Goro knows exactly how to time his stumble so he trips right as the others pull ahead onto more stable ground. Makoto tries to turn back instantly but the world shifts sickeningly around them and the floor tilts, bisected by a jagged, glowing crack that splits open inches from Goro, who pushes himself to his feet.

“Crow!” Akira yells, racing back, teetering on the edge of the crack as though he’s going to jump across.

“Don’t!” Goro shouts instinctively. If Akira gets caught in the architecture as it reforms itself, there’s no telling what could happen.

Akira acts like he didn’t even hear him, but fortunately that’s the moment a wall decides to erupt from the crack, ominous glowing light given shape and slamming between them. In an instant, Akira and the others are gone, replaced by a shuddering tiled wall.

Goro looks around to find that the entire area he’s in has changed, tunnels rearranged and ceilings low, but still bathed in that slimy crimson light.

From behind the wall, he can hear the others shouting.

There’s a lot of babble, no one coming through distinctly until Futaba’s loud: “Shut up!”

“Crow!” Akira calls in the ensuring silence. “Can you hear me?”

Goro considers just leaving, telling them all later that the shift took him somewhere completely different. That would certainly be the smart thing to do. But something about the barely-concealed panic in Akira’s voice makes him take a step forward, pressing a hand against the still-glowing tile. “I’m here,” he yells back. “I’m alright.”

“See, I told you!” Ann’s voice says victoriously.

“Yeah, I got it!” Ryuji snaps back.

“I can’t get a solid read on your position, Crow,” Futaba says. “And it looks like most of the tunnels around us have changed. We’ll need to find a way over to you, but I don’t know how long it’ll take.”

Perfect. “I’m sure I can manage for a little while.”

“Just stay put,” Akira orders. “Got it? We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“Please, don’t derail your–”

“Don’t move!” Akira cuts him off. “We’re coming to get you.”

Goro sighs. “Understood, boss.”

He hears some conversation between the others, too quiet to reach through the wall, and then he hears them moving away, heading off to forge a path through Mementos in search of their wayward party member.

He allows himself a beat, half a second to stand there in the moaning, rustling silence as the memory of Akira’s wide-eyed, panicked expression consumes his thoughts. Then he shoves the image to the side and gets to work.

Two of the people he’s looking for are indeed lurking in Mementos, distorted desires warping the area around their shadow selves. Unfortunately, neither of their desires have anything to do with him. The first one he finds, the woman, is mumbling something about custody rights–hard to keep a marriage intact when one half is in prison, it seems. The second, a man he investigated for fraud who was injured when he leapt from a window to escape arrest, is cackling about his plans to turn his cellmates against each other. Neither are interesting and neither are helpful.

Frustrated, Goro considers just ending them, but they’re not targets, and killing them seems...excessive, even by his standards. So he makes quick work of them and steals their hearts. As he grabs the man’s glowing trinket out of the air, he laments his slow descent into true phantom thievery.

After that, it’s simple work to find the others again. Mementos may shift and change unpredictably, but Goro has been traversing it for years. Even if it’s impossible to know your way around, Goro knows how to get where he needs to be.

He turns down a tunnel and spies them at a fork in the path, Morgana in car form while the others mill around, arguing with each other. Typical. They haven’t seen him yet, so he eavesdrops as he approaches.

“I _swear_,” Futaba is insisting. “If we go down there, we should come out in this little hub here–” she points to something on the screen projected by her visor. “And then he should be right over–”

“But I recognize this area,” Yusuke interrupts. “That route will only take us deeper.”

“Fox, what part of Mementos changing shape do you not understand?” Ann asks, exasperated.

“I feel like we should go left,” Morgana pipes in. “My keen senses are telling me–”

“But Mona-chan, the _map_–” Haru insists quietly.

“It moves!” Ryuji shouts, joining Ann in berating Yusuke. “It’s not the same as the last time we were here!”

“Guys, we really need to focus–” Makoto tries, but the others aren’t listening.

Goro shakes his head. These are the phantom thieves everyone is so frightened of?

“Please, don’t fight on my account,” he calls, jogging up to them.

Akira reacts first, startling from his position peering over Futaba’s shoulder. When his eyes land on Goro, he makes a beeline for him.

“Crow–” he stops just short of Goro, arms raised awkwardly, like he wants to touch but isn’t sure he’s allowed. “Are you alright?” he asks, breathless.

“Perfectly fine,” Goro answers breezily.

“How did you get here?” Futaba demands as she and the others pile in around Akira. “We told you to stay where you were!”

“I did, I was being good–” Goro glances at Akira. “But the area I was in changed again. When it settled, I was right over there–” he points down the tunnel he came from. “And I heard you all arguing.”

“Whoa, Joker was right!” Ryuji bursts out, punching Goro playfully in the arm. “You really are lucky!”

Goro smiles. “I suppose so.”

Their missing team member now accounted for, the others drift back to Morgana, planning where to search for their final target. Akira, however, hangs back with Goro.

He flashes a sardonic smile. “I wanted to come rescue you.”

Goro rolls his eyes. “I’m not some damsel, Joker.”

“I know that. I’m glad you’re okay.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a flash of heat up Goro’s spine. “We still have work to do,” he says primly, turning to head over to the others.

Akira follows closely behind.

After finishing up in Mementos and returning to the real world, the others are obviously tired, but they still make plans to get dinner together. Akira, predictably, invites Goro, but Goro declines.

“I’ll be occupied for a while, so please only contact me on business,” he requests, straightening his jacket to give his hands something to do.

Akira frowns. They’re standing apart from the rest of the group, the streetlights bathing them in a yellowish glow that glances off Akira’s glasses and hides his eyes. “Is this about–”

“No, it’s just my regular workload. Regarding that matter, I’m working on it, so you don’t need to worry.” _Don’t worry_. He feels like he’s said that a million times in the past week. A million times for nothing if Akira’s pinched expression is anything to go by.

“I wanted to apologize,” Akira says quietly. “I shouldn’t have pried, and I feel guilty for going behind your back, but I don’t regret it.” He leans closer, not enough to be noticeable to the group not five meters away, but enough that Goro can feel him sway into his orbit like a slouching, grey-eyed moon. “I know that if I hadn’t found out myself, you wouldn’t have told me. And I know that there are still things you’re not telling me. I want you to feel like you can tell me things, but I’m not sure how to make that happen.”

Goro swallows hard. “I tell you the important things.”

Akira dips his head, the streetlamp glare sliding off his lenses to reveal piercing slate eyes, focused on Goro with Akira’s characteristic single-minded intensity. “Promise?”

It’s like being caught in a tractor beam. It always is. And Goro never gets used to it. He finds the words in his mouth, the easy platitudes and assurances, frozen, and he can only stare back.

“Yo, what’s up?” Ryuji calls over, shattering the moment. “Is Akechi coming or what?”

Goro clears his throat and looks away as Akira straightens slightly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Give my excuses to the others,” Goro mutters, turning to go. He needs to leave, needs to be out of Akira’s gravity well.

“Wait.” A hand catches his, presses something into his uninjured palm. “You forgot this the other night.”

Goro just nods and keeps going, leaving Akira and his friends behind. He’s nearly home before he realizes the thing in his hand is his glove.

As soon as he gets inside, he takes the glove and its forlorn mate and throws them into the burnable trash.

* * *

Akira respects his wishes and doesn’t contact him and Goro lives in blessed radio silence for two days, both from Akira and his stalker. He’s hyper-vigilant, eyes peeled for anyone who may be following him on his commute, gazes that stay on him a little too long, co-workers paying him a little too much attention. Nothing stands out.

He briefly entertains the idea that the threat could be coming from someone in his school, but he quickly dismisses it. Regular high school students wouldn’t have the necessary mobility, and his teachers are all idiots. Whoever this is knows how not to get caught. Even interrogating the secretary who accepted his second letter and the morning desk clerk in his building yields nothing.

The secretary can’t remember the person at all and the desk clerk says she thinks it was a man, medium height, wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled low over his face. It was chilly that day, so she didn’t think anything of it at the time. Pointless. He needs to move somewhere with better security.

Actually, finding another place to stay isn’t a bad idea. He’s locked into his current schedule for the time being, but a change of address wouldn’t hurt and might distract the stalker long enough for Goro to put his plan in action.

Ah, yes. His plan.

The one he’s been working on for years, the one he has killed and will kill for. The one he will kill Akira for. His plan.

He needs to focus.

He does _not_ need Akira texting him about the meeting tomorrow when he just saw the arrangements being made in the group chat not ten seconds ago.

**I am still in the group chat, you know.**

**Akira: Wasn’t sure if you had your notifs turned on. ** **You seem like the type who wouldn’t.**

Goro frowns, leaning his elbows on the breakfast bar, homework forgotten in front of him.

**I am a phantom thief at the moment; I need to keep ** **track of our plans. Of course I have notifications on.**

**Akira: Okay I wanted an excuse to text you.**

Cheeks warming despite his best efforts to stay calm, Goro grits his teeth.

**Akira: I miss talking to you.**

**I can’t be that interesting.**

**Akira: You are.**

Curse this boy. Goro is a moderate fan of anime, and though he prefers certain series over others, he’s not a stranger to popular shounen titles that feature blandly handsome male protagonists effortlessly collecting female party members with seemingly oblivious charm. He always used to scoff at how unrealistic it was. A few sappy lines and a fierce dragon knight was willing to abandon her clan to become one of four-to-eight groupies, pledging her life to some nobody? Ridiculous. The height of escapist fantasy.

And yet just a few typed lines from Akira has Goro’s brain short-circuiting. Though, to be fair, Akira is leagues more captivating than any generic anime protagonist. Not to mention he’s probably doing it on purpose.

**Such a flatterer.**

**Akira: Never.**

Akira’s typing bubble appears and disappears a few times, like he’s composing a message, then erasing it and typing it again. Goro watches it with a quirked eyebrow. Hopefully he’s not about to say something dumb.

**Akira: I made an arrangement with the flowers ** **I showed you.**

Goro blinks.

**For work?**

**Akira: Kind of. I was practicing with Hana-san and ** **I wanted to see how they’d look.**

**And?**

**Akira: Wanna see?**

Goro quickly types out a refusal. He needs to stop playing this game, whatever game it might be. It’s not doing anyone any good. But before he can send it, an ear-splitting crash erupts behind him, the ringing crack of shattering glass splitting the air.

Goro jumps, instinct taking over as he jolts to his feet, whirling around in a defensive position. What he sees stuns his breath right out of his lungs.

The huge, aesthetic window of his third-story apartment is shattered, crumbling glass shards still dropping from the frame with high-pitched clinks. His living room is covered in glittering glass fragments, radiating out from the brick sitting in the middle of his carpet.

Heedless of the sea of glass between himself and the window, Goro races across the room, grabbing the edge of the window frame and leaning out as far as he dares, cool air whipping his hair around his face. He peers into the dark street below, but there are no figures fleeing the scene. The building opposite him is primarily office spaces, and he doesn’t spy the telltale twitch of a curtain or the hasty closing of a window.

Growling with frustration, Goro jerks back around and glares at the brick, noticing for the first time that it has something taped to it.

The white envelope wasn’t damaged by its destructive flight but it tears easily under Goro’s hands after he rips it from the brick. Inside is, again, a single piece of cardstock.

_I must not be keeping your attention very well. I hope you’ll think of me more now. I’m very eager to see you._

The same shit as always. The other item in the envelope is another photograph and Goro’s face crumples when he lays eyes on it.

He remembers this moment intimately, remembers Akira peering intently at him under a streetlamp after a harrowing trip through Mementos. Remembers his own slack expression, unable to tear his eyes from Akira’s face as his careful script failed him. Remembers the harsh shadows tucked into the folds of their bodies as they stood too far from each other to touch but too close to be an accident.

He does _not_ remember anyone else being on the street at the time, but would he have been in any state to notice?

_I must not be keeping your attention very well._

How could he focus on anything else when Akira was looking at him like _that_?

The loud pounding on his door rouses him from his spiralling panic and he quickly tucks away the envelope and photo before hurrying to attend to his concerned neighbors.

The police are called, because they have to be. Goro can’t brush this aside or hide it. His window was destroyed in a clear act of vandalism, and Goro’s status as a public figure makes it all the more concerning. Goro intentionally keeps the other incidents a secret, not cluing the questioning officer into the fact that this is an escalation. His stalker is going to face justice at Goro’s hands and no one else’s.

And that’s how Akira finds him. Barefoot, dressed in nothing but sweatpants and a t-shirt, standing with the responding officers on the sidewalk in front of his building while they assess what it would take to throw the brick from the ground.

“Akechi?”

Goro tenses immediately, whipping around to see Akira hurrying across the crosswalk adjacent to his building, followed by a dark-haired young woman he’s never seen before.

“Akira–”

Akira takes in the situation with shrewd eyes, stopping just a little too close to Goro for comfort. “What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

“I–”

“Is this a friend of yours, Akechi-san?” the lead investigator asks kindly.

Goro grinds his teeth together silently. “Yes, we know each other.”

“What happened?” Akira directs the question at the officer.

“Vandalism.” The officer shakes his head regretfully. “Someone threw a brick through Akechi-san’s window. Fortunately, he wasn’t near it at the time.”

Akira looks back at Goro, eyes wide and demanding.

“That’s the whole story,” Goro says, narrowing his eyes and trying to telepathically beg Akira not to start a scene here.

“It must have been frightening,” the officer continues sympathetically. “You certainly can’t stay here tonight. I know you said your parents aren’t around, but perhaps one of your neighbors–”

“He can stay with me,” Akira cuts in firmly.

“That’s not necessary,” Goro insists, gaze sharpening further. _Don’t involve yourself._

“It’s no trouble.” Akira meets his eyes unflinchingly. _Too late._

The officer, forgotten, babbles something about good friends, but Akira is already in mother-hen mode.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“We’ll deal with that later. For now, we need to go upstairs and get–oh, hold on one second.” Akira turns back to his companion, who’s been hovering nervously the whole time. She’s a pretty girl, probably around their age, with sleek dark hair accentuated by a red hair ornament. She listens calmly to Akira’s quiet words, flicking curious glances at Goro. After a moment she smiles and nods, patting Akira’s arm in farewell before continuing down the sidewalk alone.

“Is that alright?” Goro asks, eyeing her as she leaves. “It’s impolite to let your companion walk home alone.”

“Her building is right down the road. She understands. Come on, let’s get your things.”

These aren’t the circumstances he imagined allowing Akira into his apartment under. Because such circumstances don’t exist. He has never imagined inviting Akira into his apartment for any reason whatsoever.

“It’s alright to leave your shoes on,” he says as they pass through the foyer. “The glass is everywhere.”

There’s an officer in his living room, still taking pictures. Goro sees Akira cast a squinty look at the brick on the floor as they pass by. When they reach Goro’s room, Akira makes an odd choking noise and Goro raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re not wearing shoes,” Akira points out. “Your feet–”

“It’s fine,” Goro waves a hand. “I didn’t–”

“You should let me–”

“Really,” Goro cuts in firmly. “It’s fine. I’m lucky, remember?”

Akira blinks. “Right.”

Goro crosses his arms, making no attempt to gather his belongings. “It was nice of you to offer, but I have places I can go, so there’s no need–” his words are cut off by the click of the door latching shut. “What–”

“In case I have to do something embarrassing, I don’t want the police officer to see.”

Goro isn’t following. “Something...something embarrassing?”

“Like begging. Or crying.” Akira, brows pinched together, crowds into Goro’s space. Goro’s sure he looks like a mess, dressed in loose sleeping clothes, hair ruffled from the wind, skin pale from exhaustion, and the overhead light certainly doesn’t do anyone any favors, but Akira is looking at him like the very sight of him is precious. It’s an incredibly difficult stare to be subjected to. “I’m worried about you, and I know you won’t tell me if something happens, so the only thing I can think to do is keep you near me.” His hand finds Goro’s, lax at his side, and Akira curls his fingers around his. Akira’s skin is hot. “So please don’t fight me on this. You’ll be safe with me.”

Goro can’t speak. What could he say? _I don’t want to spend time with you because I’m planning to murder you and liking you will make that difficult._ That’s the truth, but it probably wouldn’t go over well. His fingers twitch in Akira’s grip and Akira squeezes tighter. Goro swallows. “Do you care this much for all of your friends?” He’s going for glib but it comes out much shakier than he intended.

“Of course. They know I’m always there for them. I want you to know that too.” His gaze is so deep, so focused.

Goro has to look away. “Very well,” he concedes. Some fights aren’t worth the struggle. Akira clearly isn’t going to give this up and Goro can’t risk completely alienating him at this point. “How could I refuse such kindness? I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

“I would, if I thought it would convince you.”

Laughing awkwardly, Goro extricates himself to start packing the things he’ll need. “You seem perhaps a little too eager. Don’t tell me you’re into that kind of thing.”

He means it as a joke, something to make Akira uncomfortable enough to change the subject. He doesn’t expect Akira to chuckle under his breath. “I get that a lot, actually.” He hums contemplatively. “Maybe I am.”

Goro’s cheeks heat up like someone flipped a switch and he quickly turns away and focuses on keeping his hands from shaking as he stuffs some clothes into a duffel bag.

After a few words with the investigating officer and the landlord, Goro follows Akira down the street to the train station.

Akira insists on carrying his bag and, frankly, Goro is too tired to protest. He’s also too tired to stop Akira draping his own jacket over his shoulders, since he, in all his haste, is still dressed in his pajamas. He’s even too tired to keep from leaning against Akira’s shoulder on the train.

Perhaps everything that’s happening has worn him out more than he thought.

Leblanc is dark and empty when they arrive and Akira hurries him up the stairs, practically manhandling him to sit down on the bed, not even bothering with the lights. He deposits Goro’s bag and briefcase on the couch before dropping to his knees in front of him.

Goro jerks in surprise. “What are you–”

Akira grabs his ankle. “I just want to check.”

The sight of Akira with his head bowed, kneeling in front of him, dyed silver in the moonlight from the window, strangles Goro’s voice in his throat and he can’t make a sound as Akira carefully pulls his shoes off. Gentle hands assess the soles of his feet, feeling for embedded glass or neglected cuts. Goro’s never been particularly ticklish, but the sensation is so foriegn it’s all he can do to keep still and not kick Akira away from himself in embarrassment.

After a moment, Akira sighs. “You really are lucky.” He allows Goro’s feet to settle on the floor but keeps his hands cupped around the backs of Goro’s ankles, thumb and forefinger resting on either side of his Achilles tendons. He turns his face up to look at Goro.

Goro swallows. “I told you. Don’t you trust me?” He cringes internally. Of course Akira doesn’t trust him. None of them do. He’s blackmailing them, after all. Plus, Akira himself said he knows Goro won’t tell him if something goes wrong.

“Of course I do.” Akira’s expression doesn’t change, even as Goro blinks at him in disbelief. “I trust you. I’d trust anything you told me. I just needed to check for my own sake.”

And that’s exactly the attitude that’s going to get him killed. By Goro. “You probably–” the words seem to force their way out, whispery and halting. “You probably shouldn’t...trust me that much. Of course, you should trust _me_, but in general...it can be...dangerous.”

The shadows around Akira’s mouth deepen as his lips twist into a crooked smile. “I’m not afraid of a little danger.”

Goro breathes out, so hard his breath ruffles Akira’s fringe and Akira, as though in response, shuffles closer, still on his knees, looking up a Goro from nearly between his legs. Close enough for Goro to feel the heat of him through the fabric of his pants. Close enough that every breath he exhales whispers through Akira’s hair.

“Yes,” Goro murmurs, lips barely moving, caught in Akira’s gleaming stare. “I know that.” Almost without his permission, his hand rises, fingertips lightly tracing the uneven edges of Akira’s bangs, ghosting over his brow ridge. Akira goes rigid, so still that Goro can feel his muscles tense with the effort. Goro’s heartbeat thunders through him, pulsing in time with his rapid breathing. Or is that Akira’s–?

A car honks somewhere outside, the sound violent in the syrupy air of the attic, and the tension between them slackens in an instant, both of them pulling their hands back, eyes darting away. Goro’s heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his lips.

Akira clears his throat and pushes himself to his feet, reclaiming a respectable distance between them. “You take the bed.”

Goro watches him cross to the sofa and move Goro’s things to sit on the desk before grabbing a pair of his own pajamas and descending the stairs. For someone who’s usually so unruffled, his steps are slightly harried and Goro wonders if he’s imagining the red tint on Akira’s ears.

He’s still in the same position when Akira returns from changing. He’s tired, the jolt of adrenaline from a moment ago fading with a vengeance, and he’s sure he’ll fall asleep as soon as he lies down, but he doesn’t, still watching as Akira gets ready for bed. When Akira goes to settle on the sofa, Goro speaks up.

“Wait.”

Akira pauses immediately, looking at him curiously.

“We can share the bed, if you’d like.” Pasting on a pale imitation of a smile, Goro pats the mattress. “I hate to think that I’m putting you out, but I know you won’t let me take the couch.”

“That’s true,” Akira responds flatly.

“So, if you don’t mind, we can share. I’m a calm sleeper, I assure you.”

Akira blinks at him, like he’s the one off-balance for once. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“It’s only fair,” Goro answers, slightly cowed by the hopefulness of Akira’s expression.

Akira is at his side in a flash, fussing with the covers, and Goro has no choice but to scoot back and make himself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as possible. It’s been years since he’s shared a bed. Not since a few early foster homes that had too many children and nowhere to put them. He’s lived alone since his adoption and he never had time for or any interest in sleepovers.

It’s strange to think that this is technically his first sleepover. And it’s with a boy he’s going to….

A boy he’s going to….

To–

Akira lies down and Goro does the same, staring at the ceiling instead of the boy beside him. Akira pulls the blankets up around them both. It’s not cramped, necessarily, but it is...intimate in a way Goro’s not used to. This isn’t the closeness of fans jostling for his attention, or the press of bodies on the subway, or the intimidating bulk of an irate foster parent. Akira is relaxed, completely at ease beside him, near enough to share body heat, and Goro feels that warmth seeping into him inexorably. Despite everything, despite the fraught moment they just shared, Goro feels comfortable. More comfortable than he’s ever felt in his own bed.

It’s probably just the excitement of the day catching up to him. But when Akira presses his face into his pillow and mumbles a sleepy “Goodnight,” Goro suspects that’s not the case.

“Goodnight,” he whispers back. Maybe some sleep will sort his thoughts out.

* * *

Perhaps it’s the stress, or the unfamiliar surroundings, or the weight of Akira sleeping right beside him, but that night Goro dreams about how he’ll do it.

He’s thought about it before, of course, extensively. Pretty much from the moment he discovered the thieves’ true identities, he’s been planning Akira’s death. He’s planned everything meticulously, the lies, the set-ups, the smile he’ll wear when he puts the muzzle of the gun between Akira’s eyes and pulls the trigger. He’s watched it play out a thousand times in his head. He’s killed before but never in reality and he wants to make sure he’s prepared. That he won’t waver.

In his mind, he never does. But tonight he looks into Akira’s eyes, colors shifting from silver to gold to red, and he sees his own reflection looking back. He’s not smiling.

His finger trembles on the trigger, pressing down before jerking away again and as much as he screams at himself to just _fucking do it already_, he can’t–he can’t pull it–

Until Akira raises a hand, unblinking, expression unchanging, and cups it around Goro’s, the slide of his skin like a shock of boiling water. His thumb slips into the trigger guard, fitting over Goro’s shaking index finger. Then his mouth opens–words drip out and Goro can’t hear for the rushing in his ears but he can feel them all the same.

_I trust you_.

Pressure on his finger as Akira squeezes the trigger. A concussive bang that ripples up his arm, into his bones. Akira falls back, like he always does, but instead of blood, flower petals erupt in front of Goro as the vibration from the shot–

–shakes him awake.

Blinking in the cool grey light of morning, Goro drags in a shallow breath and the movement of his chest makes him aware of the weight thrown across it.

There are still spindly flower petals curling at the edges of his vision as he turns his head to see Akira still asleep beside him. He had evidently moved closer during the night, turning to face Goro on his side, forming a barrier between Goro and the rest of the room, with one arm resting over Goro’s chest like a seat belt. Last night, Goro had been too tired, too frazzled, and the room had been too dark to get a good look, but now there’s no hiding from the sunlight or the sight of Akira, wild hair snarled in an even wilder bedhead, sleeping peacefully beside him. Bare-faced and vulnerable.

The dream flashes through his mind, trichromatic eyes unblinking as, together, they compress the trigger–

Then Akira snuffles inelegantly and curls tighter, even closer to Goro, and the image vanishes. The places they touch burn pleasantly.

Distantly, Goro wonders if all sleepovers are like this.

He should leave, but if Akira wakes up and he’s gone…. The thought makes his chest clench uncomfortably, but he’s not awake enough to examine why. However, the more time he spends here, the more time his stalker has to find him and, subsequently, Akira. He wasn’t even paying attention on the way here last night, he realizes with an internal groan. How does he know he hasn’t been found already?

But just as he starts to plan how to leave the bed without waking Akira, the boy in question breathes in sharply and the hand on Goro fists into his shirt. Jerking awake, Akira sits up slightly and blinks quickly at Goro, who can only look back, startled.

“You’re still here,” Akira says softly, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. The sound does things to Goro’s heart. Things like _stomp_ and _strangle_. “I was worried….”

“Worried I’d run off?” Goro finishes, going for light and landing somewhere closer to stilted.

Akira relaxes back onto his pillow, mouth pulling into a tired smile. “Can you blame me? You’re always running off.”

“I’m busy.”

“I know,” Akira whispers. He still hasn’t moved his hand.

Goro is suddenly very warm, despite the chill of the attic. “How did you sleep?” he blurts out. Mentally cringing, he tries to justify– “I mean, I hope it wasn’t too cramped.”

Akira’s smile only widens. “I slept great. To be honest, I haven’t been getting much sleep lately.”

“Well, that’s to be expected. You’re dealing with a lot right now.”

“Yeah.” Akira’s hand finally loosens, releasing Goro’s shirt, and it slides up, coming to rest on Goro’s collarbone. His thumb traces the line of Goro’s jaw lightly.

Goro breathes in sharply at the touch, his heart pounding so hard that there’s no way Akira can’t feel it. It thunders through both of them. Akira’s face is so close, Goro can see every flyaway hair, the shadows under his eyes, the small ring of dark slate chips surrounding his pupils. And he knows Akira can see him in just as much detail.

“Akiraaaaa!” A familiar yowling shatters the moment, accompanied by the patter of four annoyed paws racing up the stairs. “Stop making me stay with Futaba! She’s been on Amazon looking for cat clothes again and–oh–” Morgana stops short as Akira sits up quickly and Goro fights the urge to cover his face with both hands and burrow under the covers forever. “I don’t mean to interrupt but what the heck is going on here?”

Akira hurries across the room and scoops Morgana off the floor. “Nothing. Stop making that face. Akechi needed a place to stay last night and I happened to be in the area.” He glances back at Goro, who is blushing too hard to meet his eyes as he rises as well and starts digging through his duffel bag.

Morgana squirms. “I thought you were hanging out with Hifumi-san last night.”

“I was, but when I was walking her home, I ran into Akechi. He needed to leave his apartment for a while.”

“Why?”

“His window was broken,” Akira answers vaguely. He doesn’t mention the circumstances, so that means Morgana probably doesn’t know about the stalker situation. It’s kind of odd that Akira wouldn’t tell his friends, since they seem to tell each other everything.

“Whoa!” Morgana succeeds in wiggling away from Akira and hops onto the sofa, tilting his head at Goro curiously. “Are you okay, Akechi?”

“Oh–yes,” Goro answers, slightly taken-aback. “It was just an accident. Akira really...really saved me.”

“You two sure looked cozy in here,” Morgana purrs, looking as devious as a cat can manage, which is still pretty devious. “Cuddling for warmth, mayhaps?”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Akira cuts in, inserting himself between Morgana and Goro. “We have to change, so go downstairs.”

“What? I’m just kidding!” Morgana protests as Akira shoos him away.

Despite his blush, Goro can’t help chuckling at the sight.

Once Morgana is gone, Akira turns back to Goro, who’s pulling out a pair of jeans. It’s Sunday, after all. He can afford to dress a little casually.

“Stay here today,” Akira says suddenly.

Goro looks at him. “What?”

Akira crosses to him, bare feet silent on the wood floor. “We have a meeting tonight anyway. Just hang out with me today.”

Goro immediately tries to refuse. “Oh, no, I don’t–”

“Please,” Akira pleads.”You can’t go back to your apartment, so just do your homework or whatever here.”

“Wouldn’t I be in your way?”

“I’m _asking_ you to spend time with me. Does it sound like I’m worried about that?”

No, Goro supposes not. Regardless, he should decline. “Very well,” his mouth says.

Akira lights up. “Get dressed and then we can go get breakfast. There’s this cafe nearby that….”

Akira babbles and Goro doesn’t hear him, staring down at the clothes in his hands while his blood rushes in his ears.

* * *

Akira has to work at the coffee shop, so after a surprisingly low-stress breakfast, Goro posts up in one of Leblanc’s booths while Sojiro and Akira bustle about with the regular Sunday morning crowd.

Knowing Sojiro’s short temper, and given their strained acquaintance, Goro was worried about taking up space in the cafe, but Sojiro seems oddly happy to have him there. He keeps shooting him glances and refilling his mug with a good-natured grunt. He does have to keep swatting at Akira to get him to go back to work, though, since all Akira seems interested in doing is chatting with Goro.

Fortunately, Goro had the foresight to bring his laptop along last night, so he actually manages to get some schoolwork done, send a few work emails. It almost feels wrong to be engaging in normal activities with everything that’s happening. Everything that’s about to happen. But it’s necessary maintenance.

Around noon, Futaba stumbles in, looking tired and mumbling something about minecraft. She sees Goro and doesn’t even question it, just beelines for his booth and slides in across from him. Goro is briefly confused before he remembers she also knows about the stalker situation, or at least part of it.

“Sojiroooo, foooood,” she whines, face down on the table.

“Late night?” Goro asks pleasantly.

“Always,” she sighs. She lifts her head enough to squint at him over the rim of her glasses. “You too, I bet.”

Goro can’t stop himself from glancing at Akira, who’s wiping down the counter. “Not as late as it could have been.”

“Oho–” Futaba grins. “I see how it is–”

“No, that’s–”

“It’s fine, it’s fine–you know, I always figured–”

A plate of curry descends in front of Futaba and Sojiro clicks his tongue. “Don’t harass my best customer, Futaba.”

“I thought I was your best customer!”

Goro hides his smile behind his hand. In his periphery, he sees Akira pause and when he looks over, Akira is watching them with a fondness that’s difficult to behold.

After she finishes eating, Futaba drags Goro upstairs to beat him at some game on Akira’s ancient console. Unfortunately for her, his unconventional upbringing has gifted Goro with a wide variety of talents. What do you do with a child you don’t know how to raise? Stick them in front of a video game, apparently.

“What the–!” she swears loudly, gesturing furiously with the controller. “How are you better than me? No one’s better than me!”

Goro laughs. “I have some experience with old games like this. I’m sure I’d be hopeless at anything made this decade.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, one more game! This time, I swear….” she trails off, grumbling as she restarts the game.

In the end, her shouting gets to the point that Sojiro has to come up and tell them they’re disturbing business.

When he descends the stairs again, Futaba staying upstairs to nap on the couch, Akira greets him with a wide grin. The cafe, despite Sojiro’s insistence, is empty. “You’re just full of surprises.”

Goro passes him on his way back to the booth. “That’s hardly something to be so happy about.”

Akira shakes his head, leaning back against the counter. “I’m just happy you’re getting along with her.”

Goro looks down, suddenly finding the faded fabric of the booth seat very interesting. Him, getting along with Wakaba Isshiki’s daughter. The irony tastes like metal on his tongue.

Akira’s phone buzzes and he checks it bemusedly. “Speaking of getting along, the others are on the way.”

“Isn’t that a little early?”

Akira shrugs. “It’s not like we have much else to do. You guys can hang out until I’m finished here.”

“Right.” Goro’s phone rings, saving him from contemplating the prospect of _hanging out_ with the phantom thieves sans Akira. When he checks the screen, it’s a local number that he doesn’t recognize. He accepts the call. “Hello?”

“Akechi-san?” A vaguely familiar female voice says on the other end.

“Speaking.”

“This is Sasaki! I’m so sorry to bother you on your day off, but the paperwork regarding the Kurasaki case–”

Goro furrows his eyebrows. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, it looks like someone didn’t pass you the proper forms. We really need your signature on a few things right away. The case is supposed to be heard first thing in the morning.”

Sighing, Goro pinches the bridge of his nose. “This really can’t wait?”

“I’m so sorry–I swear it will only take a few minutes–”

“Alright, I’ll be there in half an hour.” Goro starts gathering his things, shoving them into his briefcase.

“Thank you so much! I’ll be waiting at the back door for you so you don’t even have to go through reception.”

“Fine,” Goro agrees tersely before ending the call and shoving his phone back in his pocket.

“What was that?” Akira asks, straightening from his slouch.

“I have to go by the police station to sign some documents.” Goro allows himself a second to scowl at his incompetent coworkers before hitching his smile back up. “I won’t be long. Maybe an hour.”

Akira takes a step toward him. “I don’t think you should be alone–”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be in public the whole time, and it’s Sunday. I won’t be alone.”

“But….” Akira bites his lip. “Just–call me if something happens, okay?”

“Nothing is going to–”

“Okay?” Akira’s tone brooks no argument.

Goro swallows and nods. “Alright. I’ll be back soon.”

Akira’s eyes burn the back of his neck as he leaves Leblanc.

* * *

The streets and underground are indeed busy, people out shopping on their day off. Nevertheless, Goro stays alert on the trip, carefully scanning the people who get near him and keeping an eye out for possible followers. Nothing stands out and he reaches the police station without incident.

The back entrance is located behind the building near the loading dock and Goro ducks into an alley to reach it. The dock area is deserted, with only a van bearing the name of the station’s paper supplier parked on the wide cement driveway. Going through reception really would be more of a pain than it’s worth. As he grabs the handle to open the industrial steel double doors, he berates himself for not making Sasaki meet him somewhere halfway with the documents.

As he pulls the door open, a man wearing a jumpsuit rounds the paper van, balancing a stack of paper reams in his arms. Politely, Goro steps aside, holding the door for him. The man inclines his head slightly, shifting the weight of the packages, and Goro wonders why nobody came to meet the delivery.

A high-pitched buzzing sound cuts through the air and by the time Goro sees the stun gun it’s too late. White-hot pain pierces his side, sending jolts of electricity zipping through his body. Spots pop over his vision and he opens his mouth to scream but a hand wraps around from behind and muffles his voice. Suddenly, the pain increases and he feels his legs give out, his briefcase clattering to the ground, hands spasming as he clutches at the arm pinning him from behind. His vision flashes white and his last thought is that _Akira is going to be so worried–_

Then everything vanishes in a wave of crackling darkness.

* * *

Akira checks his phone for the fifth time in the past minute.

“Dude,” Ryuji says around a mouthful of curry. “What’s the problem?”

“Akechi still hasn’t texted back?” Futaba guesses, clicking away at her laptop at the bar.

Ann snorts. “Isn’t that always Akira’s problem?”

“Maybe he’s just not that into you,” Ryuji teases.

“That’s definitely not the issue here,” Futaba mumbles.

Haru tilts her head demurely, sitting beside Futaba with Morgana curled up on her lap. “You said he was coming back, right? Is there a problem?”

Akira sighs, slouching back against the booth. The cafe is empty except for them, Sojiro deciding to close up early and leave the kids to their business. “You’ll talk about it whether I’m here or not,” he grumbled, “and I want no part in it.”

“He said it would only take an hour but it’s been over two.” Akira worries his bottom lip. “He also said he would call if something came up.”

Ryuji sets his spoon on his plate with a clink. “He probably just got sidetracked, man. What’s the issue?”

Futaba’s typing pauses and Akira catches her eye. They’re the only ones who know Akechi had been threatened. They decided to keep if from the others if they could help it. If Akechi was right and it would blow over, Akira didn’t want to worry the others unnecessarily. However, watching the minutes ticking away with no update, Akira is starting to fear that won’t be possible.

“I must admit,” Yusuke starts from his place beside Ryuji on the booth seat. “I was concerned about your readiness to include him in the group at first, but you seem to be getting along well, so I suppose my concern was in vain.”

“Aw, Inari was worried about the new baby taking all the attention,” Futaba croons sarcastically. “Don’t worry, mommy and daddy still love you.”

“That is not what I meant,” Yusuke scowls.

“Yusuke has a point,” Makoto says, sitting properly on the barstool on the other side of Futaba. “I was also hesitant to trust him, given the circumstances, but–” her eyes bore into the side of Akira’s skull. “Since our leader seems so convinced of his loyalty, I guess I shouldn’t worry. Admittedly, I do find it a little odd, though.”

Akira shifts uncomfortably. “Odd?”

“You’re usually so reserved. I wonder what it is about Akechi-kun that makes you so jumpy.”

Ann giggles, knocking her shoulder against Akira’s playfully. “That’s just what love does to you!”

Akira’s grip on his silent phone tightens.

“Haha, that’s so funny,” Ryuji drawls. “Akira doesn’t go for prissy types, right man?”

“Don’t tease him!” Haru protests. “That’s personal information!”

“This is just the kind of thing friends talk about, Haru,” Ryuji explains.

Akira checks his phone again. Only he and Futaba know about Akechi’s stalker. And about Akechi’s plan. The others won’t know unless they can’t avoid it. Unless Akira can’t stop it. Since Futaba revealed Akechi’s true intentions to him, he’s put off raiding Sae’s palace, trying desperately to figure out how to convince Akechi not to kill him. He has a sinking fear that any counter-plan will end with someone dead, no matter how careful they are, and given Shido’s reputation, it’ll probably be Akechi, and Akira refuses to let that happen. So he’s been desperately trying to find to find ways to keep Akechi around, to learn about him, to show him there’s another path. But Akechi is so guarded. Only recently does Akira feel like he’s seen past the mask, even if only a little bit.

Last night was...a lot. Concern for Akechi’s safety warred with the excitement and relief of having him so close. A normal person might have reservations about sharing a bed with someone who is planning to kill them, but Akira is far from normal. Besides, he challenges anyone to reject Akechi when he turns those burnt whiskey eyes on you.

And the sight of him in Akira’s bed, hair splayed on Akira’s pillow, tired eyes blinking up at Akira–it’s hard not to feel like he’s taking advantage of the situation.

Ignoring his friends’ continued bickering, Akira thumbs open his phone and covertly selects his photo app. His most recent photo is still open, a shot he asked Ann to send him that was taken during the last meeting in Leblanc’s attic. Akira remembers the meeting vividly, of course, it was there that he learned about the flowers and afterward that he managed to get under Akechi’s mask more than ever before. But in the middle, Akechi fell asleep on the floor of Akira’s bedroom, back against his bed and listing to the side against Akira’s leg. It had been obvious to everyone how tired he was, so after Akira rescued Akechi’s mug from his lax grip, they all kept the giggling to a minimum and only Ann snapped a picture.

The image shows Akechi, legs tucked to the side, dozing with his head tipped against Akira’s lap. Both of Akira’s hands are in frame, one holding a mug and the other hovering awkwardly over Akechi’s shoulder. He remembers he was debating trying to move him into a more comfortable position, but ultimately he decided to let Akechi sleep. The others all thought it was hilarious but Akira asked them to keep quiet to Akechi, worried it might embarrass him. That’s also the only thing keeping Akira from setting the picture as his background.

Scrolling once to the left, he stares at the photo he took of the bouquet he made with Hana-san. It turned out pretty nice, and he thought it suited Akechi pretty well. The bushy purple dahlias contrasted attractively with the stalks of pale heather, and the violets provided a rich pop of blue. Hana-san liked it so much, in fact, she asked if she could put it on display. He’d been excited to show it to Akechi, but the broken window kind of distracted them both. At this rate, it’ll be wilted before he can give it to Akechi. But that’s okay. When this is all over, he’ll make another one and Akechi will have to accept whether he likes it or not.

He tabs back over to his messaging app, but there’s still nothing, and he powers the screen off in frustration. Looking up, he finds Futaba considering him. He squints back.

“Maybe he–” she starts, but the buzz of Akira’s phone cuts her off and they both jerk their heads to stare at it.

The notification on the screen says he has one new message from Goro Akechi.

Relieved, Akira unlocks the phone. Akechi must have just gotten busy or something. He takes his work very seriously, so it wouldn’t surprise Akira to learn he just got caught up in some police task or other. He opens the message app, ready to tease Akechi for being a workaholic.

**Akechi: I recognize you.**

Akira blinks. Before he can ask what Akechi means, another message comes through.

**Akechi: Want to see something fun?**

After a second, a picture loads onto the screen.

It takes a beat for Akira to process what he’s looking at. The photo is barely in focus and grainy in a way that tells Akira there isn’t much light nearby, but it’s clear enough to make out Akechi’s face. He’s glaring past the camera, visibly trying to pull away from the hand gripping his jaw. A thick line of dark red traces down the side of his face and a spot high on his cheekbone is split and starting to bruise.

Akira is on his feet but he doesn’t remember standing up, staring at the phone in his white-knuckled grip. The others fall silent.

“What is it?” Futaba asks, sliding off the barstool. “Is he coming?”

Akira’s jaw is locked shut, tension making his hands shake. He can’t look away from the picture, can’t reconcile what it means. Then Futaba plucks the phone from his grasp and the spell breaks.

“Wait–”

She gasps, eyes going wide behind her glasses. “Holy–what the fuck–”

“What is it?” Ryuji stands, trying to peer at the phone and the others follow, crowding curiously around Futaba.

Akira ignores them, grabbing Futaba’s arm. She looks up at him, face pale. “Can you find him?” he rasps.

Her expression hardens. “As long as his phone stays on, I should be able to track it.” She turns and elbows the others out of the way to get back to her laptop, Akira on her heels. “Here–” she passes the phone back to him. “See if you can keep them talking.”

“Akira, what’s happening?” Ann demands.

“Is something wrong?” Haru asks tremulously.

Morgana jumps onto the bar and squints at them accusingly. “Are you two hiding something from us?”

“Not hiding–” Futaba corrects, typing quickly, windows popping up in the reflection of her glasses. “Just not telling.”

The others start protesting immediately, crowding Futaba anxiously.

Akira ignores them, tapping a reply with stiff fingers.

**Who is this?**

The typing bubble pops up and Akira’s heart leaps into his throat. After a moment–

**Akechi: He didn’t tell you? I thought I made it obvious.**

**Akechi: Maybe you’re not as close as I thought.**

Akira swallows. He _knew_ Akechi wasn’t telling him everything about the threats, but he never thought–

**Please don’t hurt him**

**Akechi: It’s so kind of you to worry. **

**Why are you doing this?**

The typing bubble pops up again before fading away and no response comes.

“Futaba,” he says frantically. “They’re not responding anymore, what do I–”

“It’s okay, his phone is still on and I’ve almost found it,” she interrupts, intent on her screen.

“Akira, please tell us what’s happening,” Makoto begs.

The others all turn to him, expressions wary. Haru looks downright terrified.

Akira opens his mouth but no sound comes out.

“Does this have something to do with what happened last night?” Morgana asks quietly.

“Last night?” Yusuke repeats.

“Yeah, Akechi stayed over last night. They said his window was broken.” Morgana’s tail swishes restlessly. “But that’s not the whole story, is it?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, _what_ happened?” Ryuji squeaks.

Akira collapses back onto the booth seat, putting a hand to his head. “I’ll tell you guys,” he mutters. “But even I don’t know the whole story.” The others crowd around and listen uneasily as he recounts the events of the past few days. He explains Akechi’s visit to the flower shop and his own curiosity, which led to Futaba discovering the stolen card. When he mentions the razor blades, Haru gasps and the others exchange horrified looks. He tells them that Akechi confessed he received letters but wouldn’t reveal what they said, and that he was obviously hiding how bad the whole thing really was. Meeting him the night before really had been a coincidence. Akira knew he lived in the area, but his offer to walk Hifumi home had truly been made with pure intentions.

“Someone threw a brick through his window?” Ryuji exclaims. “Dude, that’s so fucked up.”

“So you suspect the one that made these threatening overtures has abducted Akechi?” Yusuke wonders, crossing his arms.

Akira turns his phone over in his hands. “Yeah.”

“What was on your phone?” Makoto asks shrewdly. “A ransom note?”

“No, just a photo. That’s how I know he’s been taken.”

“So, it’s probably a grudge from someone he arrested, right?” Ann speculates, planting her hands on the table and leaning forward. “Akechi’s an orphan, it’s not like someone can expect a lot of ransom money.”

“It’s only been a few hours, though,” Makoto points out. “Maybe they’ll issue a ransom statement to the police station. Akechi is employed there, after all, and he’s a public figure. I know they’d pay to get him back.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re gonna wait around for that!” Futaba cries, hitting a key on her laptop with decisive vigor. “I’ve got his location, or, at least, the location of his phone.”

Akira shoves himself back to his feet. “Send it to me.”

“Wait,” Makoto interjects. “What exactly are you going to do?”

“I’m going to save him.”

“Alone?”

“If I have to.”

“We need to call the police–”

“Fine, you call the police, _I’m_ going to find him–”

“This isn’t the metaverse,” Makoto snaps. “This is real life, where people can actually kill you, and you’re just going to charge in with, what? An airsoft gun?”

Akira grits his teeth. “I’m not just going to leave him.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed. Calm down, and think about this–”

“We don’t have time for that!”

“Whoa, holy shit, guys–” Futaba’s yelp cuts off whatever vitriolic argument Makoto is brewing and everyone wheels around to look at her. “This is–hold on–oh my god–”

“What is it?” Akira demands, leaning over her shoulder.

“I may have something.”

“What?”

Futaba’s laptop is displaying several windows, one that looks like a gps tracking screen, one displaying lines upon lines of plain code, and one that looks like a screengrab of a cell phone home screen. The last window appears to be frozen on a dim, grainy image. “I’ve got access to Akechi’s phone and all the content on it, and it looks like our bad guy took several photos other than the one he sent you, plus a video, maybe there’ll be something we can use–”

“Play it,” Akira demands.

Futaba shoots him a narrow glance but doesn’t protest, cranking the volume and hitting play on the still image, which immediately jumps to life with a low chuckle.

The viewpoint swings around, a blur of indistinct colors and shapes before the camera comes to rest on a vertical shot of Akechi against a plain wall. He’s upright, at least, staring slightly past the camera and looking absolutely furious, bound to what looks like a high-backed chair with bright red nylon rope criss-crossing his chest. His arms are secured to the arms of the chair with zip ties, fists clenched. His clothes are torn and spotted with blood, most prominently around his collar where the wet-looking wound on his temple has dripped off his jaw. The sight is almost too much for Akira to take, but he forces himself to keep still, to keep watching.

The chuckling voice grows louder. “Should we make a video for your boyfriend, Akechi-kun?” it asks. It sounds ordinary, male, but nothing distinctive about it. “He’s very worried about you, you know.”

Akechi’s eyes flick to the camera and he grits his teeth. “Fuck you,” he hisses.

“You really haven’t changed much. Perhaps a little more vulgar.” The man laughs again and the camera moves closer to Akechi, whose enraged expression doesn’t waver. “Let’s see, your contacts said he was Akira Kurusu, right? Can’t be many of those in the city.”

Akechi sneers. “You’re so far out of your league, you don’t even know what game you’re playing.”

“I caught you, didn’t I?”

Something hardens in Akechi’s eyes as he stares past the camera. “Touch him, and I promise you’ll beg for death before your punishment is over.”

The voice scoffs. “Big words from the righteous detective prince.” A hand reaches into frame and strokes a thumb over the cut on Akechi’s cheekbone. Akechi doesn’t react to the touch other than a disgusted glare. “But you’re not really in a position to do anything, are you?”

A warped smile creeps across Akechi’s face, and the effect is so alarming that even the cameraman’s hand jerks back slightly. “You were smart to tie me up like this. When I get free, I’m not going to settle for stabbing your hand and getting you fired like last time. I’m going to tear you apart.” The way he says it, Akira can tell he means it. Looking into Akechi’s gleaming eyes, even through the filter of a dark cell phone video, for the first time, Akira sees his killer.

Then the cameraman’s hand shoots forward and wraps thick fingers around Akechi’s throat, the image zooming in on Akechi’s face as his mouth falls open in a ragged gasp. “You’re lucky I don’t snap your fucking neck,” the voice spits. “But that’ll have to come later. I’ve got other plans for you, your highness. You and your sweet little boyfriend, if I have the time–” he breaks off on a pained grunt and the video blurs with rapid movement, finally coming to rest pointed at the ground. “Fuck!” the voice swears loudly. “Why didn’t you tie his legs? Little shit just kicked–”

The video cuts off.

The cafe rings with the sudden silence. Akira can feel the others looking at him but he can’t take his eyes off the laptop screen.

Finally, after an amount of time Akira can’t recall, Ann speaks up hesitantly:

“That didn’t look like someone who was going to demand a ransom.”

“No.” Makoto crosses her arms. “This is really bad.”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay–” Futaba starts typing furiously. “This isn’t as bad as it could be–okay, it’s pretty bad and I have no idea what kind of time limit we’re working with here–but I think I might–if I can just–”

Akira numbly watches several windows open on her screen, and she leans forward, intent.

Beside him, Ryuji scrubs a hand through is hair. “This is so fucked up,” he mutters. “What’s the deal–some kind of crazy stalker?”

“Celebrities often have to deal with those kind of things,” Yusuke says quietly. “But it does concern me that he didn’t feel the need to tell us something was wrong.”

“He probably didn’t want to worry us,” Haru suggests, wringing her hands nervously.

“But we’re supposed to be a team, right?” Ryuji shakes his head. His tone is angry but Akira knows him well enough that he can recognize the anger for what it is: a mask. He’s worried. They all are, instantly catapulted into barely-concealed panic by that video. “We’re supposed to...trust each other.”

“It’s complicated,” Akira finds himself saying. His voice is rough, his throat tight. “Akechi is–he hasn’t known us like we’ve known each other. He doesn’t expect to stay in our lives after we defeat Sae’s palace.”

The others go quiet, considering. None of them had really given much thought to what they would do after Sae’s threat was neutralized, Akira included. Everything seemed so urgent and required so much of their energy that planning past that had taken a backseat. Vaguely, they knew they’d face Akechi’s ultimatum, but after that, what? All Akira knows with certainty is that he wants to keep everyone in his life somehow, including Akechi.

Now, he’s not even sure he’ll be able to do that.

“Yes!” Futaba crows suddenly. “God _bless_ that asshole detective!”

“What?” Akira peers at her screen, which seems to be displaying a personal profile.

“Akechi said it, didn’t? _I’m not going to settle for stabbing your hand and getting you fired like last time_–” she looks up at Akira, glasses glinting in the light from the laptop. “And I found it–it’s not a fan, it’s someone he used to work with!” She turns back to the screen, moving the mouse in excited little circles around what looks like an ID photo of an average-looking Japanese man in his thirties. “This guy–Hideyoshi Masuda–he was the vice-chief of the white-collar crimes division when Akechi was officially hired at the police station. Pretty well-known in the community. A few months later, he was hospitalized and his employment was terminated, but I can’t find an official statement why.”

Akira’s mind races, connecting the dots, and the others are right there with him.

“Oh my god,” Ann exclaims. “_That’s_ what Akechi meant? He stabbed this guy?”

“Why?” Ryuji asks. “What’d he do?”

Futaba shrugs. “Whatever happened, the police really covered it up. I can’t find any details.”

“What happened doesn’t matter,” Akira asserts firmly. “We know who has Akechi, we know his name, that means–”

“Mementos!” Morgana gasps. “We can find him in Mementos!”

“Yeah!” Ryuji says. “Someone that fucked up has gotta have a shadow down there!”

Yusuke bites his lip. “But what if he isn’t in Mementos? A grudge that strong–it’s possible he has a palace.”

Akira’s blood runs cold. It’s a possibility. And they won’t have the time to traverse an entire palace, assuming they could even find it. The others look uneasy at the suggestion as well.

“We have to try,” Makoto says after a beat. “We have a name–there’s no reason not to check.”

She looks grim and a glance at the faces surrounding him tells Akira that everyone is worried, tension hanging in the air around them. This isn’t like the threatening ultimatums they’ve been issued before, or the metaphysical dangers they’ve faced in the cognitive world. This is real and immediate and they’re flying almost completely blind.

“Right,” Akira nods decisively, gripping his phone in his hand. “We have to try. Futaba, send me the gps location.”

“What–” Makoto starts, but she breaks off when Akira grabs her shoulder.

“I need you to take the others into Mementos and find this guy,” he says levelly, looking her right in the eyes. Her brows furrow but he continues, “I’m going to find Akechi and stall for as much time as I can.”

“Akira, no–” Ann objects. “What if the kidnapper just kills you?”

“I’m the only one of us he’s familiar with. If anyone has a shot at distracting him, it’s me.” Akira has no delusions about taking on the kidnapper and his cronies alone–Makoto was right, this isn’t the metaverse–but if he can buy any time at all, that’ll be enough.

Ann shakes her head emphatically. “It’s too dangerous, the police–”

“We don’t have that kind of time,” Futaba says. “This guy–you didn’t see the other photos on Akechi’s phone, but–” her lips press together in a grim line. “Whatever’s going on, it’s really bad. I don’t know how long–how long this guy is gonna wait. Plus, it’s weird how this guy knew exactly where Akechi was gonna be. The police–it’s risky.”

Akira takes a deep breath and squeezes Makoto’s shoulder. “Makoto, I trust you.” He looks around at the others, gathered close, faces pale. “I trust all of you. Find this guy and steal his heart. I’m going to keep Akechi alive.” When he turns back to Makoto, her eyes are shining with resolve. “We can do this.”

She nods her head once, raising a hand to grip his wrist.

“Shit, man–” Ryuji’s voice cracks. “Just–be careful.”

“Please,” Ann adds. She ducks down and wraps her arms around Akira’s middle. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Akira forces a small smile, returning the hug with his free arm. “When have I ever done anything stupid?”

Like a dam breaking, the others rush forward, pressing in close to cling to Akira with shaking hands, begging him not to get himself killed.

“I’ll be okay,” he promises, stumbling under the onslaught.

“We’ll get this guy so fast, he won’t know what hit him,” Morgana swears, balancing on Ann’s shoulders and bumping his head against Akira’s. “He won’t have time to hurt you _or_ Akechi.”

“You guys’ll be great.” Over their heads, Akira locks eyes with Futaba, still hunched on her barstool. “We’ll be fine. All of us.”

She nods, eyes knowing. “I sent the location. You better hurry.”

Akira takes a deep breath and gently extricates himself from the group hug.

“See you guys soon,” he says. He casts one last look around the room, at his friends, before turning and walking out of Leblanc.

* * *

Goro’s ears are ringing, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Regardless, he struggles to keep his head up, to keep watching Masuda and his men.

They’re talking in low tones, huddled in one corner of what appears to Goro to be a gutted office suite. The walls are bare, half-painted and dotted with exposed wiring. The light fixtures are all missing, leaving empty sockets in the walls and ceilings. The only illumination comes from a few industrial lamps set up on the floor. The windows are covered with sheets of plywood, so no daylight can leak through, if it’s even still day.

Truthfully, Goro has no idea how long he’s been here. His internal clock says it’s probably only been a few hours, but he woke up here after the stun gun knocked him out, so it could be night for all he knows. It could be the next day.

Masuda glances over at him and Goro cuts his eyes away, playing dazed. He is dazed, but he’s more alert than he wants Masuda to realize. Since he woke up, Masuda has not been gentle, and his and his men’s lack of masks indicates that Goro will not be getting out of this alive unless something is done.

Goro had been so convinced his stalker was a previous arrest that he never even stopped to consider Masuda, but, looking back, it should have been obvious.

Allowing a minor to officially join the police as a detective was, at best, a controversial decision. But Goro had played his cards right and achieved not insignificant renown as the so-called “second coming of the Detective Prince” on his own. Hiring him officially was an excellent PR move, even if no one expected him to actually do much. It kept his fanbase happy and made the Tokyo Police look dedicated to mentoring young talent. Of course, some people, within the department and without, saw the move for what it was: a publicity stunt. Goro faced a wide variety of harassment from superiors and “peers” alike, but he quickly proved himself to not only be a competent worker but also a valuable face for the department to keep around. He was young, energetic, and handsome. Police approval ratings shot up shortly after he made his first arrest. That was enough to keep most people off his back.

Except for Hideyoshi Masuda. As the vice-chief of white-collar crimes, Masuda was more or less Goro’s direct superior. The truth was a little more complicated, since Goro’s special circumstances meant he technically didn’t belong to any one department, but he most often found himself working white-collar fraud investigations in the beginning, so he had significant contact with Masuda, who absolutely hated him.

The hatred was unwarranted, of course. Goro hadn’t done anything wrong, but Masuda was the youngest chief in the whole department and, thanks to his bland good looks, enjoyed a lot of praise before Goro was hired. Wildly jealous, Masuda took every opportunity to hinder Goro’s work, growing even more agitated when Goro didn’t rise to the bait. Goro had no need to engage in petty politics, nor was he interested in entertaining Masuda’s pitiful insecurity. This job was a means to an end, and he was good enough at it that Masuda’s meddling didn’t affect much. When the harassment turned physical, however, Goro finally considered doing something. He’d already been to Mementos at that point, already killed Wakaba Isshiki, and he thought about doing the same to Masuda. Every time Masuda grabbed his arm too hard or crowded too close, too confident in his position to think Goro might report him, Goro imagined tearing his shadow self limb from limb. But before he could make a plan, Masuda managed to corner him in his office.

Goro had only gone to drop off some paperwork, but Masuda was waiting for him. As soon as he grabbed him, Goro realized Masuda was done being subtle about his attempts to make him quit. Muttering things like “media whore” and “humiliating the police,” Masuda shoved him against the wall. Goro fought back, but he was only sixteen and Masuda was a full grown man with over a hundred pounds on him. The fear he felt at that moment was sickeningly familiar.

Memories of angry or bored foster parents, uncaring foster siblings, cruel orphanage attendants–they crystalized painfully as the struggle took them across the room and Masuda threw him on top of the desk. The next few minutes were a blur, but Goro distinctly remembers his hand closing around the handle of a decorative letter opener. It really shouldn’t have been sharp enough to pierce Masuda’s hand in one swing, but adrenaline is a hell of a drug and suddenly Masuda was reeling back, screaming, and there was blood everywhere.

The department found the whole incident very embarrassing. Masuda’s employment was terminated almost before he was admitted to the hospital and Goro was nervously asked not to press charges. Goro supposes he should be grateful they decided to believe his version of events instead of Masuda’s, but he was their media darling. Even if he was lying, it wouldn’t have mattered.

The incident was alarming, but for someone with Goro’s life, hardly worth remembering, and it faded from his mind quickly enough.

Now, however, Masuda’s rage and desire for revenge are impossible to ignore.

Lost in his thoughts, Goro doesn’t notice Masuda getting closer until a hand grabs him roughly by the hair and jerks his head up.

“Wake up, princess,” Masuda sneers.

“Why?” Goro asks flatly. “It’s not like you’re going to do anything interesting.”

Masuda’s face twitches and his grip tightens. “Still running that smart mouth.” His other hand reaches for Goro’s right, secured palm-up to the arm of the chair he’s tied to. Masuda digs his thumbnail into the re-opened cut on Goro’s hand, forcing more blood to ooze from the deepened wound. Pain lances up his arm but Goro doesn’t react, holding Masuda’s gaze impassively. “I’m gonna enjoy breaking that habit before I kill you.”

If they hadn’t finally gotten wise enough to tie his legs to the chair as well, Goro would have kneed him in the groin. Every act of resistance so far had been met with harsh physical punishment: a razor digging deeper into his hand, a punch to the jaw, a hand around his throat, and most recently a pistol upside the head. Now, Goro can see the outline of the pistol tucked into Masuda’s waistband. The sight of the pistol for the first time had really cemented the reality of the situation in Goro’s mind. Masuda doesn’t want money; who would he get it from anyway? In the eyes of the public, Goro is an orphan, and Shido would never pay up if he could avoid it. Masuda doesn’t want reciprocation; after he was fired, he basically disappeared and there’s no way he has enough leverage anywhere to go after Goro’s position. What Masuda wants is Goro’s life. The manic light in his eyes speaks only of a desire to inflict pain. He didn’t even bother to gag Goro. Obviously, wherever they were, no one would hear him scream.

But that doesn’t mean Goro’s going to give him the satisfaction of breaking him. “You’re wasting your time,” he responds coldly.

The slap leaves his head spinning. Goro takes a breath to steady himself.

“I’ve seen you on the news, of course,” Masuda says, pacing feverishly in front of the chair and absently rubbing the jagged, discolored scar on the back on his right hand. “The phantom thieves really did wonders for your popularity. All orchestrated, no doubt.”

Goro almost laughs at that. If only Masuda knew how right he really is.

“The detective prince,” Masuda mocks, reaching into his pocket. “So noble, even in defeat, rising triumphant once again.” The switchblade glints dully in the harsh light of the lamps as Masuda flips it open. “You’re only famous for your face, you know?”

Goro watches the knife as Masuda shifts it from hand to hand. “Gotta be famous for something,” he mutters absently.

“It’s everywhere. Magazines, television, newspapers. Everywhere I go, it’s there. I can’t escape it.” Masuda’s grip tightens on the handle and he paces closer, looming over Goro with a bright, empty look in his eyes. “But you’re nothing without it. All it’ll take is a few cuts here and there and no one will recognize you well enough to identify your corpse.”

Compared to the paper-thin blade of the razor, the switchblade is a dull agony as it slides down Goro’s cheek, drawing a line of fire from the corner of his left eye, all the way to the ridge of his jawbone. It takes a lot of discipline to stay silent and still as Masuda digs the blade just a little deeper before pulling back.

“There,” he smiles. “Who would love you now?”

Goro feels blood seep to the surface of the slash, running thickly down his neck, dripping off his jaw to join the red already staining his shirt. Without immediate treatment, it will scar. If Masuda is to be believed, scars aren’t something he’s going to have to worry about.

Masuda cups a hand under Goro’s jaw and twists his face from side to side, considering his handiwork. “Maybe I should take an eye.”

Before Goro can spit on him, one of Masuda’s men, who all look like yakuza contractors, probably hired for this job, appears in the doorway leading to another room in the suite. “We’ve got a situation.”

Masuda leans back. “What is it?”

“Some kid just showed up, asking for you.”

“What?” With a rough jerk, Masuda releases Goro’s face and strides over to the doorway. “Asking for me? How did he know we were here?”

“I don’t know–we grabbed him–but what should we–”

“Shut up.” Masuda glances back at Goro. “Bring him in here.”

The man ducks out and Masuda paces closer to Goro. “What did you do, you little shit?”

“Me?” But ice is forming in the pit of Goro’s stomach. Surely not–surely–

The sounds of shuffling on the unfinished concrete floor reach them and then the man from before is hauling a lanky teenage boy into the room and Goro can’t control how his eyes widen in horror.

Akira’s hands are zip-tied behind his back, his glasses gone, sporting a bloody lip and scanning the room with uncharacteristic panic. As soon as he locks eyes with Goro, he visibly relaxes.

Masuda stares at Akira. “You–” He’s been through Goro’s phone, he’s seen Akira’s contact info, including the photo Akira himself set as his icon, and Akira is distinctive enough that Goro knows Masuda recognizes him. “How–how did you find this place?” he demands.

“I’m psychic,” Akira deadpans and Goro wishes he was free so he could charge over and punch him.

“Don’t fuck with me!” Masuda lurches forward and fists his hand in the front of Akira’s shirt, shaking him roughly. “How did you find me? Did you bring the police?”

“You’re Masuda, then?” Akira asks mildly. “Thanks for the photo.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Masuda yanks Akira away from the man holding him and flings him to the ground. Then he pulls Goro’s phone out of his pocket. “Does this thing have a tracker in it?” he demands, shaking it at Goro.

Goro stares at the phone, the possibility dawning on him like a cold wave.

When Goro doesn’t answer him, Masuda growls in fury and throws the phone directly at him. Goro turns his head in time to protect his face and the phone cracks against the side of his skull before falling to the floor with a sharp clatter.

“Pick that up and destroy it,” Masuda snaps at his lackey. “And tie him up–” he nudges Akira roughly in the ribs. “Then get the others and search the area for other teenage heroes. Watch for police. I have to make a call.” With a last twisted look at Goro, he stalks out of the room.

There’s a pair of blocky structural pillars bracketing the office and Goro watches numbly as the lackey uses the same nylon rope around Goro to secure Akira to one of them. Hands still bound, seated on the floor, Akira’s gaze doesn’t leave Goro the entire time.

The lackey scoops Goro’s phone off the floor and puts a warning hand on the gun strapped to his thigh. “Don’t try anything,” he warns. Then he follows his boss out of the room, footsteps echoing faintly until the sound of a door closing cuts them off, leaving Akira and Goro alone.

Goro’s heart hammers in his chest, each pump sending renewed waves of pain radiating from his wounds, but it’s nothing compared to the sickening realization turning his breath to lead in his lungs.

“Are you okay?” Akira asks after a beat of silence. His voice is quiet, just enough to carry, and Goro clenches his fists, injured palm oozing blood with the motion.

“Akechi–?”

“Why are you here?” Goro says through gritted teeth.

“I came to get you.”

An incredulous laugh bubbles up before he can stop it. “Good fucking job.”

Akira’s serious expression doesn’t change. “All part of the plan.”

“The plan–” Goro shakes his head. “Don’t tell me your idiotic friends are involved too? No–what am I saying–of course they are. Who other than Futaba could put a tracker on my phone?”

Akira stares at him silently. Goro waits for him to protest, claim ignorance, but he just keeps staring, intense as always. Until Goro can’t take it anymore.

“Why are you here?” he asks again, voice rising. “If Futaba had access to my phone, then you know everything! Why bother coming?” He laughs again, sharp and cruel. “Did you come to watch?”

“I came to save you,” Akira insists, leaning forward as far as he can, straining against his bonds. “Futaba and the others too–we want–”

“Stop,” Goro hisses. “Just stop. How stupid do you think I am? What sane person would run to the aid of someone planning their murder?”

“Me!” Akira responds without a hint of irony, eyes gleaming.

Goro sneers. “Oh, I get it. You just want to make sure you get the last hit.”

“No!”

“It would only be fair, right?”

“Stop it, Akechi, I’m not–”

“Unfortunately, Masuda is just going to kill you when he gets back.” Goro hangs his head, smiling sardonically at nothing. His shoulders slump with the weight of everything crashing around his ears. “You probably won’t live long enough to see me die.”

“We are not going to die here,” Akira says confidently. “The others are in Mementos right now. They’re gonna find this guy.”

Goro considers this. After a second, he drags his head up with great effort. “You didn’t call the police?”

Akira shakes his head. “We didn’t think we had the time. And–” his expression hardens. “There’s a plant, right? At the station?”

Goro blinks. Of course, he’d figured out that Sasaki set him up, but how did Akira–

“Whoever called you had to be working with Masuda,” Akira continues. “And if we called the police, they’d just tell him and then–” Akira takes a deep breath. “We couldn’t risk it.”

“Akira–” the name comes unbidden, shaking. “_Why_?”

Again Akira strains against the rope, like all he wants is to get closer, gaze unwavering. “I had to come save you,” he says softly.

The words draw Goro forward as well, helpless against Akira’s magnetic pull, until they’re matching, both straining against their ropes in an effort to get just one inch closer. “You don’t–you don’t know anything–” Goro gasps in a breath. There’s no give in his bonds and they cut into him with the motion. “I’ve killed–so many. Okamura–the train incidents–”

“That doesn’t change how I feel.”

“How can you–” In the face of Akira’s gravity, Goro’s words stutter and crumble. “How can you say that? How can–I–I killed Futaba’s mother!”

Akira furrows his brows, finally looking irritated. “Why are you trying to talk me out of saving you?”

“I’m trying to make you see sense!”

“This isn’t sense, Akechi!” For the first time, Akira raises his voice. “None of this makes sense! I don’t know why you did what you did, the _real _reason, but I want to know! I want to listen! I want to know _you_ and I can’t do that if you get killed by an insane stalker!”

Goro stares at Akira, eyes wide.

“I want to save you,” Akira continues, voice quieter but no less heated. “From this and from whatever else you’re hiding from.”

Goro flinches. “Stop–”

“I’m here now. I just want you to believe that.”

“I–I–I–” Goro squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. “What I’ve done–you can’t–”

“Do you regret it?”

Eyes flying open, Goro stares incredulously at Akira. “What?”

The tractor beam of Akira’s gaze hasn’t moved, shining right into him with cutting intensity. “Do you regret what you did?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Goro demands. “Trying to decide if I _deserve_ to be saved?”

“I just want to know.”

“What’s the merit in asking me, anyway? I could just lie to make you feel sorry for me!” Goro points out shrilly.

“I don’t care.” Even bruised, tied up in the floor of a dingy, starkly-lit office building, the way Akira raises his head is all Joker, every inch the dauntless leader of the Phantom Thieves, and Goro feels his breath leave him. “I trust you. I’d trust anything you told me.”

The air rushes back into Goro’s lungs so quickly it burns, catapulting him back into last night with flashes of–

_Sterling eyes blinking up at him, glowing in the moonlight–_

_Gentle fingertips lingering on his ankles–_

_“Don’t you trust me?”_

_“Of course I do.” Lips, too close, forming the words like they’re ringing a bell. “I trust you. I’d trust anything you told me.”_

The long cut down the side of his face stings as his tears drip past the split skin. Goro blinks hard and more roll down his cheeks, no doubt mixing with his blood for a gory sight. “I...I do–” he whispers. “I regret it–I wish–I wish I could….” he gasps unevenly. “But what does it matter–”

“It matters,” Akira insists, renewing his struggling against the ropes.

Goro laughs wetly. “I can’t go back. It’s way too late.”

“Listen to me, Akechi.” And when Akira uses that tone, how can Goro not obey? “All this time, you’ve been alone, but you’re not now. I’m here. And I’m not leaving you. Anything that happens, you’ve got me.”

Goro still doesn’t know _why_, _why_ is Akira so determined to save him, to trust him, why he _cares_ _so fucking much_, but the look in Akira’s eye tells him asking now would be pointless. Akira’s made up his mind, come hell or high water. So Goro can only shake his head weakly and mutter: “You’re being foolish.”

Akira flashes him a faint smile and the small movement makes the wetness in his eyes catch the light. “Business as usual.”

Goro feels like laughing but he swallows it. “So what was the plan, here, leader? Walk up and get captured?”

“Pretty much.” Akira sighs and leans back against the pillar. “I just wanted to distract Masuda as long as possible and give the others as much time as I could. Figured someone waltzing into his hostage situation might throw him for a loop.”

“He’s unhinged. None of them are wearing masks and he’s barely covered his tracks.” The letters had specific clues to his identity and he sent Akira a photo from Goro’s phone. Even if Akira hadn’t been able to track his cell, the police would have ways. “He’s desperate for revenge, and desperate people are….” Goro blinks hard to get rid of the tears still pooling in his eyes. “They’re unpredictable.”

“What’s the deal with this guy anyway?”

Goro grimaces, the action pulling painfully on the cut down his face. “I suppose I kind of replaced him as the idol of the Tokyo Police Department. At least, that’s how he seems to think. There was an...incident, and I ended up stabbing him in self-defense. He was fired immediately. And now he’s back for revenge.”

Akira’s expression darkens. “An incident?”

“It’s irrelevant now. I’d completely forgotten about it until I saw Masuda when I woke up.”

“Now I wish I’d gotten a hit in before they tied my hands.”

“You’re fortunate he didn’t just shoot you. They all have guns.”

Akira looks supremely unconcerned. “I had to take the risk.”

“And what if the others can’t find him in Mementos?” Goro asks. “What if he has a palace? Or what if they don’t make it in time? What then?”

“They’ll make it,” Akira responds firmly.

Before Goro can point out the rest of the flaws in Akira’s plan, the sound of a door slamming open draws both of their attention. Furious footsteps stomp closer from the other room.

“Just keep your smart mouth shut,” Goro whispers harshly.

“Pot, kettle,” Akira tosses back, because he just has to have the last word.

Then Masuda is storming into the room, cell phone pressed to his ear. “Get over here, _now_,” he growls into the microphone. “You were supposed to make sure this didn’t happen and I’m not dealing with this alone!” He fumes for a second, listening and looking between Goro and Akira, incensed. “Figure it out! If you’re not here in ten minutes, you’re finished!” He hangs up without waiting for a response and pockets his phone.

Goro and Akira exchange glances. Masuda’s police contact?

“You–” Masuda kicks Akira’s leg, splayed in front of him on the floor. “How did you find this place? Even if there was a tracker in the phone, what kid would have access to that kind of technology?”

Akira just looks up at him, face blank.

“Answer me!” Masuda kicks him again, harder. Goro clenches his fists. “Are you working with the police? How did you know my name!”

“Does it matter?” Akira asks tonelessly.

“Tell me!” Masuda produces the switchblade again, flipping it open and pointing it threateningly at Akira.

“I told him,” Goro says quickly.

Masuda whips around and Akira shoots him a warning look. “What?” Masuda rasps. He’s sweating, eyes wild, seconds from a breakdown.

“I told him about you,” Goro continues calmly. “When you started sending me...presents. I thought it might be you.”

“Really?” Masuda takes a halting step toward him, knife glinting in his hand. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You tell your boyfriend but not the police?”

“I wasn’t that concerned,” Goro says truthfully.

“Not concerned?” Masuda lurches into his space. “This wasn’t enough to _concern_ you–?” The blade of the pocket knife saws into the cut on Goro’s hand and the pain is so sudden it makes him hiss. “The photos weren’t concerning? The window?”

“I’ve been busy,” Goro says through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I know, I’ve been watching you.” The knife leaves Goro’s hand and hovers over the slash on his face. Masuda leans over him, breathing heavily. “All I wanted was to make you feel afraid before I killed you. But you’re too _busy_, too _important_. Like always. Too cocky to think anything could ever beat you.”

Goro holds his frenzied gaze steadily. “What do you want me to say? That I’m scared of you?”

“Akechi!” Akira calls out sharply. Masuda’s bulk is blocking Goro’s view of him but he can hear scuffling, like the sound of shoes scrabbling on gritty concrete flooring.

“You keep quiet!” Masuda yells before pressing the knife into the wound on Goro’s cheek and twisting slightly.

The consistent, dull throb erupts in fire across Goro’s entire face and his left eye squeezes shut instinctively but he stays quiet.

“I want you to scream, Goro Akechi,” Masuda whispers. “Just like I did. And if I have to carve you up past recognition, then I’ll do that.”

Perfect. As long as Goro keeps quiet, they allegedly have infinite time. And as long as he can keep Masuda focused on him, Masuda might leave Akira alone. As long as Akira doesn’t draw attention to himself.

“Good luck,” Goro says, voice strained from the pain lancing all the way through his teeth.

“Cheeky little–”

The blow, a backhand this time, jerks Goro’s head to the side and knocks the room out of focus. Mouth filling with blood, Goro turns back to Masuda, shaking his bangs out of his eyes. Behind Masuda, Akira is yelling, struggling against his bonds.

“I said shut up!” Masuda starts to turn around, to head over to Akira, and Goro spits his mouthful of blood at his face.

Masuda freezes, the blood on his cheek sliding down in a thick rivulet. His eyes dart back to Goro, filled with a burning hatred. “You little shit,” he spits, voice low. “You really wanna play with me?” He grabs Goro’s right hand and forces his fingers flat against the arm of the chair.

Goro has half a second to realize what’s happening and brace himself before Masuda swings the knife down and stabs it through his palm, so deep it embeds in the wood underneath.

A scream nearly tears out of his throat but he bites it back, just barely. The pain is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. In the metaverse, your body can take more damage than usual, so injuries are frequently quite gory, and they hurt, but ultimately, none of that is real. Wounds are healed with potions, pain is erased by magic because you _believe_ it’ll work. Reality is just different.

A flare of the most blinding pain he’s ever imagined races up his arm, slightly delayed, like his body is trying to figure out what happened, and for a minute, it’s all he can do to breath, the heat bleeding into his lungs with every breath, but if he doesn’t breathe, he’ll pass out, judging by the black creeping around the edges of his vision. For a moment, the pain is all he knows.

Then awareness trickles back: his other hand fisted so tightly he can feel his nails cutting into his skin, his head lowered, hair hanging in a curtain around his face, Akira screaming distantly.

Or not distantly. The fog lifts a little more, the pain ebbing as his mind compartmentalizes it, and Goro can clearly hear Akira screaming and cursing, voice echoing in the barren room. He lifts his head, breathing shallowly.

Masuda has apparently stepped back a bit, allowing Goro a clear line of sight to Akira, who’s staring at him in horror, tears coursing down his cheeks. When Goro meets his eyes, Akira freezes his frantic struggles. “Akechi–” he gasps.

“I’m okay,” Goro forces out. He dares a glance at his hand and grits his teeth against the sight of the pocket knife still embedded in his palm, pinning it to the arm of the chair. Blood is pooling around the blade, dripping to the floor in thin streams. The pain is a vortex but he doesn’t have time to fall into the spin so he looks away, up at Masuda, who’s–

Staring at him. Blinking hard, like a man seeing the sun for the first time. He raises a hand to his forehead, panting. “Wh–what–” he looks around sluggishly, spies Akira on the floor and stumbles back a step. “What have I–why–”

Goro meets Akira’s gaze, hardly daring to hope.

“This–” Masuda continues, words slurred. “This is–I did–this–why...oh god–” he looks at Goro, eyes wide and slightly unfocused but no longer brimming with loathing. “You–” he takes a staggering step toward him.

“Don’t touch him!” Akira shouts.

Masuda pauses, flinching.

“Untie me,” Akira orders. “Now.”

Obviously confused and panicking, Masuda hastens to comply, sneaking horrified glances at Goro as he produces a boxcutter and clumsily severs the ropes holding Akira to the pillar.

“And my hands.” Akira shifts around to allow Masuda to cut the zip ties, then he’s on his feet, stumbling slightly as he makes his way over to Goro.

“I can’t believe they fucking did it,” Goro mumbles as Akira kneels down in front of him.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Akira says softly, gentle hands assessing the various points Goro is bound to the chair, carefully avoiding the knife still stuck in his hand. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.” Akira flashes him a smile. It’s strained and slightly swollen, but it’s a sunrise after a long night and Goro’s lips twitch up in response.

“H–here–” Masuda approaches hesitantly, offering the boxcutter. As soon as Akira snatches it out of his hand, he retreats, collapsing on the floor and holding his head.

“How do you feel?” Akira asks, slicing through the ropes binding Goro’s legs.

“Bad.”

“Yeah, I figured that.” Cautious hands smooth over Goro’s calves when the ropes fall away. “I meant any injuries I can’t see.”

“Probably a stun gun burn on my side, but that’s it.”

Akira frowns, shifting around to cut the zip ties on Goro’s left arm. He rubs his hand soothingly over those spots as well. “We need to get out of here before those guys come back.”

“You’re right.” Goro takes a grateful breath as the ropes around his chest loosen. Akira pulls them off and tosses them to the side. “They won’t be happy that their boss got cold feet.”

As though to illustrate his point, Masuda lets out a pitiful moan.

“Okay.” Akira rounds the chair and kneels again on Goro’s right. “I’m going to cut the ties. Ready?”

Goro nods, jaw clenched.

Eyes flicking between Goro’s face and the task at hand, Akira carefully severs the first zip tie. The renewed blood flow rushes out of the wound and a wave of pain washes over him. He breathes out harshly. “Keep going, it’s fine.”

“Are you–”

“We can’t leave here if I’m still strapped to this chair. Just do it.”

Looking doubtful but with little choice, Akira severs the other zip tie and places a hand on Goro’s knee in comfort as even more pain forces a hiss out of him. After it settles down, Goro reaches for the handle of the knife.

“Wait–” Akira grabs his hand.

Goro raises his eyebrows. “Akira, we really don’t have–”

“I know, I know, just–hang on–” Quickly, Akira strips off his hoodie and takes the boxcutter to it, cutting the sleeves off. “It’s a little dirty, but we need to keep pressure on the wound,” he explains, discarding the boxcutter and ruined hoodie on the floor.

Goro nods. “Right.” He reaches for the knife again but Akira beats him, curling his fingers around the handle without actually touching it.

“I’ll do it,” he says softly. “I’ll be quick.”

There’s no reason for Akira to do it, Goro’s perfectly capable now, but, looking between his own scuffed, shaking hand and Akira’s steady grip, he knows who he trusts more at that moment. “Okay,” he agrees, bracing himself.

It’s only a second, a flash of staggering pain, a drop in the stagnant well that sends the whole thing rippling, before it recedes back to sea level and Goro inhales roughly. The switchblade hits the floor with a metallic thud.

“Okay, okay–it’s okay–” Akira is muttering, wrapping Goro’s hand tightly with the fabric from his hoodie. “It’s gonna be okay–”

His hands are trembling now and Goro catches one in his own, holding it tightly. Akira looks up at him, eyes red and shining. “It’s okay,” Goro echoes faintly.

Akira blinks and a flicker of emotion passes over his face, some sort of intention, but before he can do anything, the door to the suite slams open loudly.

“Okay, I’m here–” a female voice shouts, quick footsteps drawing rapidly closer. “Why are all the men outside, what–” Sasaki appears in the doorway, wearing a coat over her work attire and looking harried. She takes in the scene before her with wide eyes. “What the fuck is going on here?”

Akira stands, positioning himself in front of Goro. “We’re leaving.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Sasaki asks. Her eyes land on Goro. “Masuda! Why isn’t he dead yet?”

“Sasaki-san–” Masuda speaks up tremulously, uncurling from his position on the floor. “I–I–this is wrong–” he approaches her slowly. His heart must have been really distorted, if the change is this severe. “Let’s go tell the police what happened–if we turn ourselves in–”

“Are you joking?” Sasaki interrupts incredulously.

Masuda shakes his head miserably.

Sasaki’s face twists in rage. “Turn ourselves in?” she screeches. “What is _wrong_ with you? After everything I did–! And you’re just gonna crap out on me!”

“Did you really think you’d get away with this?” Goro asks drolly. She switches furious eyes to him. “My phone records would show you as my last phone call. I assume you did something about the cameras behind the station, but what about the traffic cameras nearby?”

“Shut up!” Before they can react, she rushes Masuda, wrapping her fingers around the pistol still tucked in his waistband before shoving him bodily away from her. “I am not going down for this!”

Goro shoots to his feet and grabs Akira’s arm to–what? Pull him down? Shield him? Regardless, Akira doesn’t move, the set of his jaw grim.

Masuda skitters backward. “Sasaki-san, please, I–I was wrong to involve you, but this is–”

A sharp _bang_ swallows his next words, and a hole appears in the drywall to the right of Masuda’s head. Goro is familiar with the sound of gunfire and he knows Akira is too, but they both still jump, muscles tensing, and Akira wraps an arm behind himself, catching Goro around the waist.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Sasaki demands shrilly. “You’ve been planning to kill this bastard for years and now, what, you feel bad? You got scared?”

“I was wrong,” Masuda moans, cowering with his hands up. “I wanted to–I don’t know what happened but I realized–this is too far, Sasaki-san, please–”

“No,” she pulls back the safety with a mechanical click, eyes wild. “I’m not going to prison because you lost your nerve. Everyone in this room is getting a bullet to the head. A tragic kidnapping, murder, and suicide, all by the same sad, washed-up lunatic.”

Goro should have seen this coming. He _knew_ Masuda had a contact in the police station, but he hadn’t honestly thought Sasaki might be a threat, assuming her to be little more than a paid accomplice. But of course Masuda giving up the plan would throw Sasaki under the bus as well.

“It’s too late,” Akira says placidly. “The police on on their way already.”

Sasaki swings the gun around to point directly at Akira’s head. Goro’s grip on his arm tightens, a silent plea for him to shut up.

“You can’t bluff me, kid,” Sasaki jeers. “I just came from the station. They have no idea what’s happening. No thanks to you–” she jerks her head at Masuda, “–and your idiotic _presents_. Childish. You’re only lucky _Akechi-kun_–” she says mockingly, “–is such a lone wolf and didn’t want an investigation.” She scans Akira with distaste. “So this is the guy you called about?”

Masuda whimpers in response.

“Where’d you come from, kid?”

“Where do you think?” Akira answers evasively.

Her eyes narrow. “Tell me.”

“How do you think I know the police are coming?”

“They’re _not_.” She punctuates the sentence by jabbing the gun in Akira’s direction. “You’re lying.”

“Then how did I find this place?”

Sasaki grits her teeth. “I’m asking _you_. I don’t have a lot of patience, kid, tell me, or you’re dead.”

She looks like she means it, hands steady on the pistol’s grip, and Goro feels panic buzzing through him. He wants to pull Akira back but the arm around his waist is locked in place and every time he shifts, Akira adjusts to keep himself between Goro and Sasaki. It’s infuriating and so _Akira_.

“Sasaki-san, please,” Masuda begs. “Nobody’s died yet, we don’t have to–”

“God damn it, shut up!” Sasaki snaps her aim back to Masuda. “This is all your fucking fault, so shut your pathetic mouth before I tear out your tongue! You’d like that, right? Since you’re so into torture?”

While she yells at him, Goro glances desperately around for something, anything he can use, and his gaze falls on the switchblade, discarded on the floor beside the chair, the blood on the blade partially congealed into a deep red color.

He glances back up and finds Akira eyeing him sideways. A spark of understanding passes between them, a plan forming wordlessly. For an instant, Akira’s hold tightens. Goro’s fingers curl into the fabric of Akira’s shirt sleeve.

“–pathetic _and_ sick–” Sasaki is spitting, gesturing loosely with the pistol. “The only reason I helped you was because I want the little shit dead too–but I guess this works just as well–”

Between one blink and the next, Goro lunges for the switchblade. Fighting in the metaverse and fighting in the real world are different, but between the sheer amount of time he’s spent as Shido’s errand boy and his official police training, Goro has picked up enough to know how to handle himself. He grabs the switchblade with his left hand, and, before Sasaki can react to the movement, aims and throws in one fluid motion.

The blade buries itself in her thigh, just under the hem of her coat, and she jerks back, shrieking and flailing. At that moment, Akira rushes forward, seizing her wrist and putting his shoulder into her chest. A deafening _bang_ rings out once again, and Goro flattens himself to the floor, his heart pounding in his throat. But the shot was wide and Akira doesn’t stop, snagging the gun from Sasaki’s grasp and body-checking her to the floor. She goes down hard, screaming and clutching her leg as Akira steps back, training the gun on her.

Masuda collapses to the floor in a quivering puddle and Goro pushes himself to his feet, cradling his right hand to his chest carefully. Blood is starting to seep through the thick fabric wrapped around it.

“Are you okay?” Akira asks, not taking his eyes off Sasaki.

“Yeah,” Goro answers breathlessly. Fortunately he’s left-handed or he’s not sure he could have pulled off that throw. He crosses to Akira, brushing their shoulders together. “Should we call the police or should we–”

Before he can even finish the question, the thunderous sound of footsteps stomping closer cuts him off and suddenly the room is flooded with uniformed police officers shouting “Freeze!” and “Drop your weapons!”

The next few minutes are a blur of trying to explain that Akira had disarmed the kidnappers and the real criminals are the woman with the knife in her leg and the man sobbing on the floor. Since Akira is clearly bruised and dirty, it’s not hard to convince the police and they’re both being bundled out of the building in short order. Akira keeps a hold on Goro’s arm the entire time, which is highly unnecessary, but Goro can’t find it in himself to care. It feels too nice.

In addition to the riot of police cars and officers stationed outside the derelict office building, there’s a gaggle of familiar faces waiting nervously on the curb. When they see Akira and Goro being ushered out the front door, Akira’s friends descend en masse, all talking at once, briefly overcoming the officers flanking them.

Ann and Haru are crying. So is Ryuji, but he’s trying to hide it. Yusuke immediately starts pelting them with questions. Morgana is squirming in Futaba’s arms and talking a mile a minute, which has to sound like horrific feline screeching to all of the police personnel around them. Makoto is scanning them both up and down, looking horrified, while Futaba hangs back nervously.

Akira tries to calm them down. “I’ll tell you everything later, I promise, but right now Akechi needs a doctor–” And then the police succeed in leading them away from the group of hysterical teenagers and into the back of an ambulance.

While the EMT carefully inspects the puncture wound on his hand, Goro drops his head onto Akira’s shoulder, leaning heavily against him.

Silently, Akira laces their fingers together.

* * *

“–and then he tried to run for it, but, of course, I was too fast for him, and–”

Goro listens blankly as Morgana recounts his group’s confrontation in Mementos. He’s trying to pay attention, but his thoughts keep drifting into questions of how Akira’s friends managed to convince the hospital to allow all of them to visit at once. Not to mention how they smuggled a cat into the hospital in the first place.

The drugs are making it difficult to focus on any one query for too long.

“–so I hit him with my slingshot and he went down like–”

“No, didn’t Makoto do that thing again?” Ann interjects. She’s perched on the bed beside Goro’s, the one that technically belongs to Akira, but he limped off a few minutes ago to _meet someone_.

“Oh yeah!” Morgana’s tail swishes across the sheets where he’s sitting at the foot of Goro’s bed. “You should have seen Makoto, Akechi!” he meows, blinking wide blue eyes up at Goro. “She was so fired up!”

“I wish I could have been there,” Goro croaks. He’s propped up on the bed, injured hand in a temporary sling across his chest while the doctors decide if he needs another set of stitches, and his position affords him a clear view of his full room.

“Man, I wish you were there too,” Ryuji groans, rolling his shoulder before slumping in the hard plastic visitor’s chair. “Your laser sword could have levelled those smaller shadows he summoned–oh, and I wish you were there for other reasons too,” he finishes on a mumble.

“Indeed,” Yusuke nods, leaning against the window sill behind Ryuji. “Were you with us in Mementos, you would not have been held captive by–” he breaks off with a grunt as Ryuji unsubtly elbows him in the stomach.

“Anyway–” Morgana continues. “By then, Futaba was telling us we needed to hurry up because something was happening in the real world–”

With a bit of a struggle, Goro turns his head to look at Futaba, sprawled out behind Ann on Akira’s bed, phone in hand and a lollipop from the nurse’s station poking out of her mouth. “You can tell that kind of thing?” he asks, the words heavy with effort.

She shrugs, laying her phone on her chest to meet his eyes. “The overworld and the metaverse affect each other,” she says around the lollipop. “The shadow started going haywire so I figured something was up. Considering the situation, I was worried that–” she breaks off, brows furrowed, and busies herself with her candy.

Makoto is the only non-cat human sitting on Goro’s bed, and she sweeps the room with a stern look. “Akechi-kun should be _resting_,” she says pointedly, “not listening to a highly embellished version of a fairly routine fight.”

“Routine!” Ryuji protests loudly. “That guy was a nightmare!”

“Of course, it wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle,” Haru, seated in the second visitor chair, tells Goro gently, as though he may become retroactively anxious.

“Sounds like you all managed just fine,” Goro mutters, his drowsy brain finding it important to contribute to the conversation.

“Just like I said you would.” Akira’s voice draws everyone’s attention to the doorway, where he’s leading a tall woman with short, dark blue hair into the room. The woman is wearing a white coat, but that’s where her visual similarity to a doctor ends. “Guys, this is Tae Takemi. She’s the best doctor in Japan.”

“Stop.” Dr. Takemi whacks Akira in the arm with the clipboard she’s holding. “Go lie down.”

Goro watches blearily as Akira bypasses his own assigned bed and heads for his. Makoto rises smoothly to make room and Akira shamelessly inserts himself under the blankets, pressing himself against Goro’s uninjured side. Maybe it’s the drugs, but all Goro feels is grateful for the warmth.

Dr. Takemi shakes her head, muttering something that sounds like “Teenagers, I swear to god….” She turns her attention to the clipboard. “Okay, what have we got here.”

Ryuji, visibly unnerved by Dr. Takemi’s unorthodox appearance leans in and whispers: “Where the heck did you meet her?”

“She’s my primary care physician,” Akira deadpans. He shifts carefully until he can get an arm around Goro’s shoulders. Goro doesn’t resist, leaning more heavily on Akira when Akira pulls him closer. “She does work with the hospital sometimes, so I called her.”

“Dude, that is _not_ what I asked–”

“You boys have really been through it, huh?” Dr. Takemi almost sounds impressed, approaching the bed, still scanning the papers on the clipboard. “How do you always manage to find the most trouble, guinea pig?”

_Guinea pig?_ Ryuji mouths in disbelief. Makoto frowns back at him and puts a finger to her lips.

Akira shrugs with his free shoulder. “Lucky, I guess.”

“Well, someone is definitely lucky.” The hairs on the back of Goro’s neck prickle as Dr. Takemi assesses him with sharp eyes, shrewdness hooded with heavy, eye-shadowed lids. “You’re looking pretty good for a torture victim, Mr. Detective Prince.”

Goro doesn’t feel like he looks pretty good. His face is bruised in multiple places and bisected by a long gash held closed with small butterfly bandages while the doctors decide whether to attempt stitches or not. His hand is swathed in bandages, which is honestly a blessing, given the gory nature of the wound. His hair is a mess and he’s struggling to keep his eyes open. He’s far from his public image. Frankly, he’s surprised Takemi even recognizes him.

“When Akira told me I was visiting a celebrity, I didn’t really believe him, but I should know better by now.” Dr. Takemi rounds the bed to Goro’s other side and Ryuji frantically stands up to get out of her way. “Let’s see if the clowns here knew what they were doing,” she says, perching on the side of the bed for a better look. “No IV,” she observes quietly.

“Not staying,” Goro explains, trying not to slur his words.

Takemi scoffs. “Don’t be dumb.”

“No, we can’t stay here too long,” Akira elaborates. “Just enough for treatment, then we have to leave.” His arm around Goro’s shoulders flexes.

They can’t stay in one place for too long or they risk Shido finding them. The debacle is all over the news by now, along with pictures of both Goro and Akira being escorted out of the office building by the police. Shido is paranoid by nature and Goro doesn’t want to know what kind of story he’ll concoct in his head.

Takemi casts a look at Akira that seems just a little too knowing. “Fine,” she relents. “It’s stupid, but fine. Let’s see–” she turns back to Goro. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

Goro hums permission and precise, chilly fingers prod his face, testing the bruises, which hurt, but in a distant way thanks to the drugs, and carefully appraising the long, barely scabbed split down his cheek. Takemi’s mouth twists in displeasure.

“Pretty gruesome, huh?” Goro rasps. Before the anesthetic, the simple act of talking made his whole face light up with pain. Now all he feels is a distant, low-level ache.

Takemi quirks a brow at him. “Only because I know how it got there.” She blows out a sigh. “I don’t know what they told you, but I don’t think you need stitches for this. It’s a really clean cut, so if you take proper care of it, the scar won’t be noticeable.”

Vaguely, Goro thinks he should feel relieved, but right now he can’t summon the energy. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Takemi glances back down at the clipboard, muttering to herself, “Mild concussion, second-degree burns, a clean perforation–” she squints at Goro’s bandaged hand. “Says here the knife missed your major tendons.”

Goro nods fuzzily and Akira elaborates: “He could still move all of his fingers when they numbed his hand.”

Takemi quirks an eyebrow, clicking her tongue. “Lucky, lucky.” Another scan of the clipboard before she tosses it casually to Ryuji, who squawks and catches it with an absurd amount of flailing. “Other than that, you got off pretty lightly, it seems.” She cuts her eyes to Akira. “And you’re hardly any worse for wear. So what am I doing here?”

Akira shifts slightly. “Well, like we said, we can’t stay for very long, but the hospital doesn’t want to discharge Akechi without–”

“Without releasing him into a physician's care,” Takemi finishes, comprehension dawning on her face. “Sneaky, guinea pig. You’re _using_ me.”

The others watch the exchange curiously. Other than Futaba, none of them know the exact reason they can’t linger in the hospital. Akira had mumbled something about paparazzi as an explanation, but they’re not dumb. Goro can tell they know something else is going on.

“Think of it as a favor,” Akira says.

Takemi frowns at him, dark lips puckered in thought. “Fine,” she says at length. “I’ll help your little jailbreak. But you owe me the whole story, guinea pig.”

Akira sighs in relief. “Thank you, Tae-san.”

She waves a hand. “Save it. I have to go talk to the attending.” She stands and smoothly reclaims the clipboard from a slack-jawed Ryuji. “I’ll be right back.” She struts out of the room, leaving a slightly stunned silence in her wake.

Ann is the first to speak. “So _that’s_ where you got all those medical supplies,” she marvels quietly.

Futaba snorts.

* * *

Tae Takemi is one of the most intimidating people Goro has ever met, which is absolutely wild considering the type of people he deals with on a daily basis. If she told him the only way to care for his injury was an acid bath, he’d believe her.

As it is, she provides him with extensive, meticulous instructions, most of which he barely absorbs, still floating on pain medicine, but Akira nods seriously beside him and she slips a written version into his hands, so it will probably be fine.

Sojiro offers her a ride back to her clinic when Akira and Goro are finally freed but she declines, stating further business at the hospital.

“I expect to see both of you at my clinic tomorrow,” she says with a finality that can’t be argued with. Not that Goro is in any state to argue, leaning heavily against Akira as Sojiro opens the back door of his car.

“We’ll be there,” Akira assures her.

She gives them both a meaningful look before swaying off, tapping her clipboard against her shoulder.

Despite their attempts not to linger, after treatment, police questioning, and observation for Goro’s concussion, their hospital stay still lasted an entire night and most of the next day, meaning the sun is starting to dip in the sky when they finally get underway. The ride to Leblanc passes in a blur, but by the time they arrive, Goro feels a little clearer. His hand and cheek protest with every movement, but he’ll gladly trade the foggy haze over his thoughts for the discomfort.

Akira exchanges a few words with Sojiro and Futaba, seated in the passenger seat, before helping Goro out of the car. Goro wants to insist he doesn’t need assistance, but the excitement of the day really is catching up to him in the form of a body-wide ache, so he just gives up and lets it happen.

Their clothes, kindly washed and returned by the hospital, smell faintly of disinfectant, but the astringent scent is the furthest thing from Goro’s mind as Akira wraps his arm around him to lead him up the stairs to the attic.

After making sure Goro is seated comfortably on the bed, Akira finally detaches to flop face-down on the mattress behind him with a groan. “I’m tired.”

Goro adjusts the strap on the sling keeping his right hand immobile. “Understandable.” His voice is raspy, the bruising on his neck from Masuda’s rough treatment just starting to turn a mottled red when they were discharged.

Akira rolls onto his side, peering at Goro in the evening sun sifting through the window. His cheek is swollen and bruised a deep purple but he narrowly escaped a black eye, so both eyes are bright and focused as he smiles softly. “Thanks for coming back with me.”

Clearing his throat, Goro curls his good hand into a fist on his thigh. “I didn’t have much of a choice.” Indeed, Sojiro’s stance had been uncompromising when he pulled his car up outside the hospital. Not to mention Akira’s clingy friends or the fact that Goro didn’t actually...want to be alone.

“No, but I know you could have found a way to sneak off. If you really wanted to.”

Goro presses his lips together, looking down at the floor. “Don’t you just know me _so_ well,” he says, not making much effort to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Just a little.” The bed creaks as Akira pushes himself into a sitting position. “Not as much as I’d like.”

A gentle touch brushes Goro’s arm and he jumps, which is stupid. They’ve been touching nearly constantly since leaving the office building, but that felt necessary, like if someone didn’t keep hold of him, Goro might dissolve. This feels different, though, alone in Akira’s room, dyed gold in the evening sun. The faint contact of Akira’s hand on his arm burns like fire.

Akira pulls back at Goro’s reaction, but when he doesn’t do anything else, he hesitantly places his hand back on Goro’s arm. “Is this okay?”

Eyes still on the floor, Goro nods haltingly.

Akira shifts his weight, pulling his long legs in to sit criss-cross on the bed and slouching forward so that Goro can feel the heat of him at his side. His hand curls loosely in the crook of Goro’s elbow. “I’m so happy that you’re here,” he murmurs, his voice low and close and his words heavy with meaning. _I’m so happy that you’re here and alive, here and with me, here and–_

Drawn in by Akira’s gravity, Goro raises his eyes from the ground and turns his head to face him. “I’m...I’m happy I’m here too,” and as Goro says it, he realizes it’s true. _Happy_ is a strong word and he’s not actually sure how it feels. But if he has to choose, this would probably be it. Akira knows everything, but he still came for Goro, still worried about him, still stood by him. Any sane person would run as far away as possible, when simply turning away would make all their problems disappear, but Akira only leaned in, all crooked smiles and gentle hands. Like a fool.

Now Akira looks at him through his eyelashes and sweeps his thumb in gentle arcs over Goro’s bicep.

“Are you going to tell your friends the truth?” Goro asks, because he has to. Judging by their overt and frenzied concern for him when they met up at the hospital, Goro is pretty sure Akira’s friends don’t know his true identity. Haru’s watery smile in particular stings when he remembers those hazy hours.

Akira’s grip tightens. “That’s something we can discuss together.”

Surprised, Goro blinks. “You don’t think they have a right to know?”

“I think this is a conversation for later, when we’re not so tired.” Akira’s eyebrows twitch together and he raises his other hand. Fingertips whisper over Goro’s temple as Akira brushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “And I think it should be your decision.”

Goro sucks in a breath. “Alright.” Akira’s hand lingers for a moment on the shell of Goro’s ear before settling on his shoulder. Goro tries to suppress a shiver. “Speaking of your friends,” he says a little too quickly, “I’m surprised they’re not here right now.” Goro lost track of them sometime between Dr. Takemi’s arrival and Akira helping him into Sojiro’s car.

“They’ll be over in the morning. I asked them to hang back a bit.” Akira smiles and it’s so tender Goro almost can’t look at it. But he can’t look away either. “I wanted to be alone with you tonight.”

“Hm.” Goro presses his lips together. He’s tired, fatigued in a way that surpasses physical exhaustion, but he’s teetering on an edge and he needs to know which way he’s going to fall. “I...I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

Goro inhales roughly. “Why?”

Akira tilts his head almost imperceptibly, so close that Goro can feel the flyaways of his bangs brush against his own forehead. “What do you mean?”

“When we were...when you showed up, you were so insistent–” Goro starts haltingly. “I get it–you’re a hero. You want to save everyone, but what you did–what you’ve been doing–all of this–” he clenches his jaw, struggling to find the words, “–it’s too much. You really could have died yesterday, but you just kept–you said it was because you wanted to...to know me, but–” unable to look at Akira’s soft expression anymore, Goro squeezes his eyes shut. “_Why?_”

Akira’s concern, his determination, his forgiveness, his promise back at the office building, it all swirls together in his mind, raging and storming, unmoored without that one, central answer. Why.

A beat of silence passes between them and fear flickers low in Goro’s gut. Did he push too hard? Ask too much? But then Akira is shifting slightly, barely pulling away, and Goro opens his eyes to see him pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Here,” he says softly, thumbing it on. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Goro watches as Akira taps the screen a few times. Then he leans forward again, switching the phone to his other hand to hold it in front of Goro. His free hand tucks itself into the empty spot on Goro’s arm, maintaining contact.

“I wanted you to see it in person, but we’ll have plenty of chances for that.”

Blinking in the brightness of the screen, it takes a Goro a second to realize he’s looking at a photo of a bouquet. Bushy, dark purple flowers dominate the arrangement, accented by wispy white stalks and small bundles of blue buds. Individually, the flowers look...familiar.

“Did you read the links I sent you?”

“Yes,” Goro whispers.

Akira double-taps the image to zoom in. “I chose these flowers really carefully.” He centers the screen on a big purple dahlia. “Flower language is a little sentimental, but if I’m gonna send you flowers, I’m gonna do it right.”

Heat creeps up Goro’s neck and he swallows, eyes fixed on the picture.

“Dahlias mean–”

“I read what they mean,” Goro croaks.

“–elegance,” Akira continues, undeterred. “And dignity.”

_None of that here_, Goro thinks miserably, fighting the urge to hide his face in his hand.

Impossibly, Akira leans closer, words breathed right into Goro’s ear as he moves the image to focus on a thin white stalk of heather: “White heather is for good luck and protection. You’re probably the luckiest person I know.”

“How can you say that?” Goro mumbles. “After everything that just happened?”

“Anyone else would be dead.”

“I think that’s your luck, not mine.”

“I’ll take any luck I can, as long as it keeps you safe.”

The desire to hide mounts further.

Akira swipes across the screen to center on a small cluster of violets. “This is the reason,” he says lowly, voice dropping to a pitch that Goro can feel in his bones. “If you read the links, then you’ve known this whole time.”

Goro’s breath hitches. “That’s...ridiculous,” he forces out.

“Yeah, I probably should have said it more romantically.”

“No, not that, you–” Goro breaks off, inhaling raggedly. “That can’t be it. Love...love at first sight doesn’t exist.”_ Not for people like me_. “It’s not _enough._”

“It’s enough for me.”

“No,” Goro insists, quietly slipping toward hysteria. The world is spinning too quickly around him. “You can’t just say you _fell in love_, it doesn’t work like that–it–I–” but even as he denies it, he can’t escape it. Akira’s gentleness, his intensity, his heated stares, his utter refusal to back down, his desperation–none of it fits with any relationship Goro has ever had before. Goro has nothing to give back, should Akira demand–

But he won’t.

Trance-like, he tears his eyes away from the phone and turns his head, finding his face mere centimeters from Akira’s, finding himself caught in a familiar, molten silver gaze. “Say it. Please.”

Akira discards his phone on the bed and reaches up, carding his fingers into the hair at the back of Goro’s head. “I love you,” he breathes, lips barely moving. The hand on Goro’s arm drifts up, trailing over his shoulder before tracing down his spine to flatten against the small of his back. It feels like a hand-shaped brand. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you.”

His heart swoops in his chest, banking low and high with incomprehensible emotion. “That wasn’t very smart.”

“Turned out pretty well from where I’m sitting.”

The laugh that escapes Goro before he can stop it is little more than a huff, but Akira grins in response. The hand in Goro’s hair drops down to the underside of his chin and Akira brushes his knuckles along his jawline, lingering at the end of the long slash on Goro’s face, grin softening.

Goro smiles ruefully. “A little less _elegant_ now, huh?”

Akira shakes his head, a small movement side-to-side. “Just as handsome as always. Maybe I really am the lucky one."

Goro tips his head forward until his forehead is resting against Akira’s. “Flatterer,” he whispers into the scant space between them.

Akira breathes out a laugh, stroking his thumb over Goro’s uninjured cheek. The path made by the sweep of his skin feels like it’s glowing. “Never,” he murmurs.

There are still a million things to talk about, a million things to do, thoughts and plans chasing each other in circles around Goro’s brain, all tinged with the nagging notion that he _doesn’t deserve this–_

but it all goes quiet when Akira closes the distance between them to press their lips together.

It’s a chaste kiss, Goro’s first, but it’s firm and sweet and Goro melts into it, raising his unbandaged hand to cradle Akira’s jaw. Akira pulls back slightly, unfolding his legs to shift closer to Goro on the bed before pressing in again with a bit more force, tilting his head, drawing Goro in further. His hands snake around to rest intimately on Goro’s waist.

After a moment, Goro has to lean back, gasping in a breath. His eyes flutter open and the sight of Akira’s tender expression takes his breath away all over again.

The world is upside down. The boy he’s supposed to kill is kissing him, fully aware of who he is. Shido and his plan couldn’t be further from his mind. Everything he thought he knew–it’s all over.

“I’m here now,” Akira hums against his lips.

Goro can only nod, looping his arm around Akira’s neck and pulling him in again.

It’s all over. It’s just beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> if i had to describe my writing style in one word it would be "apocalyptic" bc everything is the end of the goddamn world. 
> 
> let me know what you think! this is my first work in this fandom and i'm so excited to share it. if i missed a tag or you think i should be more specific about a cw, please tell me, lmk in the comments or on my [tumblr](https://mistresseast.tumblr.com/). or just come and chat!


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